


A tapestry of stars

by noverture



Series: In the face of your light [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, apparently there's poetry in here now, both? both, check chapter summaries for which chapters you should be up to before reading, most are pieces in solas' pov, or having fun, spoilers for itfoyl, this is just me doing a characterisation practice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26082964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noverture/pseuds/noverture
Summary: Side pieces written for 'In the face of your light'
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Male Lavellan, Male Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Solas
Series: In the face of your light [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894804
Comments: 259
Kudos: 245





	1. [Solas] Hummingbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Should be caught up to Chapter 28]
> 
> There was a lullaby that Lavellan would always hum. Solas would always find himself listening. (It’s literally just Solas being dramatic and falling in love and resisting it poorly but not wanting to admit it.)

The first time it had happened, Solas had been surprised.

The day hadn't been particularly memorable. Solas was unsure what had happened during the day, but the one thing he would never forget was Lavellan humming a tune so soft, so secretive, that he'd felt as if he were spying in on an intimate matter. He couldn’t recall what Lavellan had been doing then, either. Perhaps gathering herbs, perhaps simply meandering through the Hinterlands without a goal. It mattered not. What mattered was how the tune had relaxed Lavellan.

Ever since the Breach and the Conclave, Solas could count the number of times Lavellan had smiled sincerely on one hand, maybe two. The number of times he'd relaxed, even less. Lavellan had been working non-stop the moment ever since their arrival in the Hinterlands. The mistrustful and jaded part of Solas whispered that this could all be a farce on Lavellan’s end, that there must be a catch for all his good deeds, that nobody was _that_ compassionate or considerate. But nobody could fake constant vigilance and worry for this long. Lavellan worked tirelessly because he cared. 

But Solas digressed. Fact of the matter was, Lavellan seldom relaxed or seemed at peace, but as he hummed his lulling tune, his tension vanished. His hardened features relaxed, his gaze softened, and he smiled absentmindedly. Solas stared.

 _There you are_.

There was the man without the burdens of worship, not haunted by his past, smiling for the sake of it. The melody threaded with the afternoon wind. Cassandra and Varric stopped, stared at Lavellan’s back. Solas attempted to put a name to the tune, to recall if it was a song the Dalish carried from faded Elvhenan.

Solas couldn’t recognise it.

He was unsure if he was saddened or relieved.

* * *

The second time was in Val Royeaux. 

Something irate trembled between them throughout the day, and the ease in which Lavellan inspired childish pettiness in Solas both shamed and worried him.

But no matter his grievances, Solas placed them aside, for the latter half of the day placed Lavellan in a dismal mood. Confronted by that eccentric elven girl who expressed such a vehement disdain towards her own people, followed by that Orlesian noble sneering and deriding him… 

Well, Orlais was no friend to the elves.

Lavellan had carried himself well, but Solas needn’t be a savant to know that Lavellan only allowed himself to fall when he was alone. 

The inn they stayed at was simple, for Orlesian standards, but that simplicity afforded them separate rooms which was welcome after weeks of camping and being in such close proximity to nigh strangers. Solas was halfway to falling asleep when soft footsteps passed his door and pulled him into wakefulness. He frowned, stood and opened the door, peering at who had passed.

Lavellan’s back disappeared downstairs.

A wise man would have left him be and gone back to bed, trusting that the Herald could take care of himself.

Solas had long stopped considering himself a wise man.

He made to follow but paused, eyes falling on his staff and the wooden blocks he'd tied around it. Perhaps he could test it tonight. The last few times he'd caught Lavellan unaware, he'd dealt with either a dagger to the throat or a crying Dalish in his arms. For Lavellan’s sake, and Solas', perhaps having something that would prematurely alert Lavellan to his presence would alleviate his distress and lower the probability of Solas bleeding out from a slit throat.

Solas took the staff and followed Lavellan to the docks of Val Royeaux. He was on the parapets, gaze on the moonlit waters. He hummed once more. Solas stopped the wooden blocks from making noise. Not yet.

Once again, the tune was soft and secretive, but this time, it was tinged with sorrow. Longing.

Solas suspected that this time, his song was meant for nobody else. He swayed his staff and let the wooden blocks hit one another, the sound carrying and chasing the mellow tune away. Lavellan faced him in mild surprise. Solas mourned the loss of the melody, but Lavellan teaching him how to tie the blocks more effectively and later querying about tales from the Fade more than made up for it.

* * *

The following occurrences, the location and time had never stood out to him. All Solas knew was that the tune would bring peace to Lavellan and those around him. It mattered little what activity Solas was in the midst of doing because the melody would always catch his attention. He didn't know what a siren’s call sounded like, the creatures themselves hidden in the cold darkness of the sea, one of Ghilan’nain’s creations remaining untouched at his behest. He entertained that perhaps it sounded like this. Mellow and deep. Sometimes flowing, sometimes spry if Lavellan was in a good mood, sometimes lamenting. Solas never knew what he was lamenting.

During camp, the party would ask Lavellan to prepare whatever it was he'd hunted for their meal because that was when he was most likely to hum. The gruesome task of skinning and cleaning and cutting the game almost looked idyllic when Lavellan hummed beneath his breath, and the fact that Solas seriously considered the image of Lavellan with bloodstained hands idyllic was a concern.

“He’s in a good mood,” Varric remarked at the bouncy alteration Lavellan had made to the lullabilic tune. 

“Indeed,” Solas said. 

“Let’s try to keep him that way.”

Solas frowned, watched as Lavellan gutted the fish with great finesse. How long _could_ they keep him that way?

As it turned out, not very long, because he yelled at Solas hours later during their argument about the Dalish.

Solas was only surprised it had taken this long.

* * *

Lavellan hummed during their long walk to find Skyhold. It alarmed the others around them, especially those who weren’t close to him, those who worshipped and believed him their saviour. 

And it only strengthened their faith further. Solas couldn’t sneer at them for it. Lavellan had that effect, and Solas feared the tide of it would pull him one day when he wasn’t looking. Worse; he feared that he'd stop fighting it.

_Let Skyhold be my final favour for you. I will walk away from the shores of your ocean._

It was foolish of Solas to think that Lavellan was the ocean and the tides.

Lavellan was the sun. 

* * *

It was his mother’s lullaby.

The spirit of Memory had asked for a warm and safe memory, and Lavellan had provided. It was a memory of their mother lulling Lavellan and his sister to sleep. Solas stayed arrested in the moment, struck still by both the recognition of the melody and the melancholy of the scene before him. He stood unsure, hidden by the shadow of the trees. It felt as if he'd intruded upon a scene meant for nobody but Lavellan. 

Lavellan attempted to sing with her but his cries choked the words and so, he resigned himself to sitting in front of her.

Solas eyed Lavellan as he was now and Lavellan as he was before. Youthful and vibrant, eyes glimmering with childish glee, still unaware of how cruel the world could truly be ― and now: eyes dark and heavy, shoulders hard as it carried the weight of a world, well-aware of cruelty and bringing a dagger to its heart every hour. 

And yet he still managed to smile at and love this cruel world.

The world took and took, yet Lavellan gave and gave. _Stop this_ , Solas wished to say. _It never ends. Stop this before you are whittled away to nothing._

 _Stop this before_ I _whittle you away to nothing._

Blood cold in his hands, but warm against his lips. 

Lavellan gestured for Solas to come closer.

_Stop it, stop it. I do not wish to be the one who smothers your light. Stop letting me close. Stop it. You must be the one to stop it. Stop me._

_Please. Stop me._

_Because I cannot._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas, I'm finding, is terribly hard to write lads.


	2. [Solas] Mea culpa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Should be caught up to Chapter 20]
> 
> '“You should say sorry,” said Cole.
> 
> “To whom?” Solas asked though he already knew.'
> 
> Bonus: letter from Varric and co. begging Solas for something to help Lavellan sleep while they're in Crestwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Solas practice for me. Strike one for obnoxious Latin chapter title.

“You should say sorry,” said Cole, appearing without warning as he was wont to do.

Solas glanced up from the research papers strewn about the desk he had claimed in the rotunda. 

“To whom?” Solas asked though he already knew. Cole stared at him.

_“What else would you be?”_

Such careless words that had fallen from his lips… Lavellan’s crestfallen look had been a knife to the heart. The callous neutrality afterwards had wrenched it.

“He wants a friend,” said Cole. “He’s scared but he can’t let others see. You make him feel safe.” He angled his head lower, the wide brim of his hat obscuring his face. “But scared too. He’s scared a lot. I can’t take it away, it’s too tangled and thick.”

“He would not desire my friendship if he knew what it entails,” murmured Solas. “I am neither a safe harbour nor a shoulder to lean upon and it was foolish of me to have entertained the thought.” He could not let Lavellan depend on him. Could not let him place his trust in Solas. Lavellan had been betrayed twice by his close friends and Solas would not like to become the one who would shatter him next.

“But he doesn’t shatter,” said Cole.

“He does,” said Solas. “Only, he rebuilds himself once again.” Over and over with bruised knuckles and bloodied palms smeared with tears. Solas understood. Presented with little option, those like them could only rise, but such a task was exhausting. Each recovery came at the cost of a fragment of themselves. One could only rise so much.

And Solas and his mistakes had burdened Lavellan enough.

“Maybe,” Cole acquiesced. “So why do you still hurt him?”

“Better now than later,” he said.

Cole blinked. “But you don’t want that. You like being with him.”

“It matters not.”

“He likes being with you, too.”

“That…” Solas paused. He pressed his lips and hung his head. “Is worse.”

* * *

He scrutinised the sketches on his desk with a displeased mutter. This would not do. Too pretentious. Lavellan was not one for overly ornamental pieces. It must be simple, yet beautiful. Bold lines, vivid colours, with intricacies hidden and seamless within the whole piece. Such hidden suprises would delight those with an eye for detail, Lavellan among them.

Solas gave his surroundings a surreptitious glance and ensured nobody was watching before he ran his hand over the vellum. The charcoal sketches lifted under the green light of his magic. It turned blank once more.

His lips pulled in wounded displeasure. Casual displays of magic unnerved, if not outright frightened most people, and being forced to operate them covertly stung. Once again, a faint yet visceral sense of missing plucked at his heart. Something as simple as undoing a sketch could cause so much fear, and yet such practices were commonplace in Elvhenan. A flick of a wrist would bring far items into waiting hands. A curl of a finger would pause a precious vase from shattering. It was for ease of process. It saved time. 

He focused on the blank vellum before the supervening vertigo of those thoughts could consume him once more.

Now then, the founding of the Inquisition. How could he convey both celebration and responsibility? Burden and hope?

 _“This is a promise of being wherever we are needed, not out of nobility or valour, but because it is right,”_ Lavellan had said. Solas would scoff at such a sentiment had it come from anyone else. As it stood, Lavellan had a talent for making others adopt his convictions. For one who had claimed such discomfort when he'd been bequeathed with power, he was awfully adept at wielding it. Lavellan fit the throne, ruined as it was.

Yet another mystery to the puzzle and contradiction that was Lavellan.

How could he rally against Solas with all he had upon defence of others and yet crumble in defence of himself?

Solas stared at his first finished fresco ― the birth of the Breach, the beginning of one of many of his mistakes.

The day his world had changed.

Solas rubbed his neck where Lavellan’s dagger had rested during their first proper encounter and smiled wryly. What an alarming change that had been too.

Would Lavellan like the painting? Perhaps this was Solas’ apology. For his words and future actions.

Solas knew in his heart that even if he were to paint a millennia’s worth of frescoes, it would never be enough. He would never be enough.

Nothing could ever be enough.

“I believe that vellum was blank, last I saw,” said a familiar, lilting voice. Solas glanced up and kept his expression level as Nightingale approached. She smiled, and he noticed the letter in her hand. “No ideas?” she asked.

“The opposite,” he said. “The paradox of choice.”

“I’m sure he’ll like it, either way,” she said, and her smile turned mischievous as her eyes glimmered. “Though, I heard saying ‘sorry’ tends to do the trick.”

Solas sighed. “Was there something you required of me, spymaster?”

“I do have a name,” she mused.

“I will not have this argument with you also,” he said.

“It is no argument, Solas,” she said, tone entirely too amused. “Only the Inquisitor can keep up once you begin.”

Was there anything this woman did not know? She reminded him of Dirth―

Solas’ throat dried and he cast the thought aside. “As I said, was there something you required of me?”

“Not me,” she said and handed him the letter. “This arrived from Crestwood this morning.”

Solas frowned and took it, charcoal from his fingertips smudging on its edges as he did.

“From the Inquisitor?” he asked.

“Do you want it to be?”

He gave her an unamused look as he broke the seal.

“You didn’t answer,” she said.

“It did not deserve one,” he returned. The handwriting was Varric’s. Solas was not disappointed. Come to think of it, he had not seen Lavellan’s handwriting. Would it be neat? Or wild and flowing like the man seemed to be? Or something entirely unexpected?

He eyed Nightingale who still hovered and lingered.

“Is there anything else?” he asked.

She was still smiling. “Am I not allowed to be curious?”

“Curious about what, exactly? It is a letter from Master Tethras.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“How relieving that you will invent for me my own emotions,” he said. “I thought I may have had to live deficit of them.”

The prickly comment didn’t deter her but she at least moved to leave.

“I will leave you to it,” she said, but paused and regarded the one fresco he'd finished. “Artists tend to leave their signature upon their work. A little mark. To say, ‘I was here’ or ‘This was me.’” She faced him. “You’ve left nothing of the sort.”

“I am recording the Inquisition’s actions,” he said. “The fact that I have painted it is enough.”

Her eyes glinted. What outrageous conclusions were eddying about in that mind of hers?

“If you say so,” she said and left him to it. Solas stared at his fresco, then at the blank vellum, and shook his head. He had left his mark enough. The day that they would realise this, he would be long gone.

He refocused his attention back to the letter.

> _Hey Chuckles,_
> 
> _I’m going to keep this brief. It’s about the Inquisitor. Listen, we’re getting really worried about him. I don’t think he’s gotten a full night’s sleep since we arrived and it’s starting to mess him up a little and we have no idea what to do. Nightmares keep waking him up. It’s gotten to the point that we had to stop him from fighting. A demon almost did him in the other day and Hawke had to patch him up. And Dorian._ [That sentence was written in a different, sweeping hand, added as an afterthought.]
> 
> _Sera was here >:PPP _[There was a phallus doodled beside it but it had been scribbled out. Solas sighed. Typical.]
> 
> _As I was saying―_ [The tail of the ‘g’ violently twisted away almost as if somebody had grabbed the pen off the writer. The handwriting changed to an almost indiscernible print but someone had scratched out that entire section and Solas couldn’t decipher it.]
> 
> _Sorry, that was Sera._ [He gathered.] _But yeah, I’m a dwarf, I don’t know shit about dreams. You’re the Fade and dream expert, right? Can you think of something that could help him sleep at least? This is just getting painful to watch._
> 
> [The hand changed yet again. Back to the sweeping, aristocratic style which Solas surmised was Dorian’s.] _Not to rush you or anything but do please be quick about it. T_ _hat man's sense of self-preservation is practically non-existent when he’s like this._ _I have lost count of how many times I've clucked at him in disapproval just to make him stay still. If this keeps up, I will turn into a chicken. I'm sure I'd make a handsome chicken, but I would rather not be one._
> 
> [Once again, another change of hand. Larger letters but orderly. Bull?] _I can only drag him into bed so many times. Uh, wait, no, that didn’t sound right. You know what I mean. That guy doesn’t look it, but man is he heavy. And slippery. He keeps elbowing me in the eye. I only have one eye left, Solas. Come on. _
> 
> [It returned to Varric’s hand.] _We’re kind of going behind his back like this but we’re out of ideas and so is the Inquisitor, I suspect. Please help._
> 
> _Varric._
> 
> _And Sera!!_ [She doodled a frowning face with arrows pointing towards it, the words ‘this is you’ beside them.]

Solas placed the letter down and rubbed his eyes.

“This is why he should have taken me with him,” Solas muttered.

So it had been nightmares. Solas had thought that Lavellan had trouble falling asleep, but it seemed the problem lay with _staying_ asleep. He had also assumed that Lavellan had been improving because the sleeping elixirs were barely consumed. Of course they would not work; they were the incorrect solution.

What _could_ Solas do? He could interfere with Lavellan’s dreams, but the distance was too great and he hadn’t the strength for it just yet. Solas also suspected that his presence would be unwelcome. Not after their fight. If it could even be constituted as such. He had the option of coming to Lavellan in his lupine form, but the last few times he had done so―

_A lake on the edge of the world and Lavellan stood in the waters, beckoning with a sunlit hand. Gentle fingers drove the darkness away._

_Momentarily, at least._

The best he could do was a different elixir. Solas already had one in mind.

This, too, wasn't enough as an apology.

He doubted anything would be.


	3. [Lavellan] When the World Was Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Doesn't matter where you're caught up to]
> 
> Before the world ended then reverted, before he knew of ash and pain, he was a hopeful Dalish elf who found himself falling for the unlikeliest man. (A little peek into his first run and the initial dynamic/romance with Solas).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It just hits different.
> 
> I fuckin-- Wrote this in one sitting-- I slept at 4, it wouldn't leave my head, I had to write it all down my brain would not let me rest until EVERY single word had been bled out onto the page. In my case, word document. 
> 
> For obvious reasons, I can't go as in-depth into their relationship here because this is less than 6k words and I'm still crying and dying while writing the slow marinate 300k+ main fic ✌

Everyone screamed at him, called him murderer, and all he could throw back in their face was a bewildered, if not outright irritated silence after his, “What’s going on?”s were answered with, “You killed the Divine!” one too many times. Lavellan never understood why his hunters spent so much time talking shit about the shems, but he was starting to see why.

All he remembered was sneaking into the temple to scout and the next, bound in a dark cell and being yelled at by a terrifying shem while his left hand tried to kill him.

Said left hand flared in pain once more during the walk to the Valley and he collapsed into the snow with a strangled yelp. The shem, Cassandra, offered him the first speck of kindness by helping him up. 

Later offset by her aiming a sword at his neck for daring to pick up a weapon to defend himself against a _demon_.

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” he asked. “What was I supposed to do? Lie down on the ice and let the demon tear me up into fleshy ribbons so it could wear me as a dress?”

Cassandra pinched her lips. “I could have protected you.”

“You were ten metres away,” he said with incredible incredulity. Was she _serious_? 

“You do not need a weapon now.”

“You’re right,” he said, dark. “Bare hands can strangle.”

“Is that a threat?” she demanded and bristled, grip tightening on her sword.

“Were you expecting courtesy?” His own grip on the daggers tightened. “Let’s recount shall we? I get manhandled about, accused of murdering your precious Divine when I couldn’t give half a rat’s arse about your blasted human dramatics. Then I find out this magical mark on my hand intent on searing my bone away is killing me. _Then_ I find myself suddenly fighting demons. It would have been nice if you showed a little bit of understanding and kindness,” he spat, “because from what I see, we’re all having a shit time.”

Cassandra’s stare hardened, the whole of her setting like forged steel cooling in the trough. He almost expected her to yell again but she did not. Instead, she sighed, and sheathed her blade.

“You are right,” she said. “I apologise for my brash behaviour. It was unbecoming.”

He stared, nodded slowly. 

“And again, you are right in that you need a weapon. I cannot be sure of your intentions, but do not entertain thoughts of attacking me. It will not end well.”

“I’ve had plenty of opportunities to hurt you. I did not. I just want to make sense of everything, same as you, and it’s a little counterproductive fighting you.”

“So long as we have an understanding.”

That was the most conciliatory they were going to get, he suspected. 

They moved through snow and ice and demons, all while he eyed the Breach in the sky. The thought that it was his sister who could have been in his place, that she could have been the one thrown into this realm of scrutiny, twisted his stomach. It was a good call on his end to go in her stead. He felt something wasn’t right, that something bad would happen, and the Conclave proved him right. Better he went through this than Ellana. She hated attention and this would have surely overwhelmed her.

Lavellan twirled his daggers in his hand as he leapt into the fighting. There was a dwarf and another elf being overran by demons near a strange, green, glowing rip in space. Cassandra seemed to know who they were. He hoped they proved nicer. Maybe. He kept his expectations low.

Three shades crowded the elven mage. Lavellan barrelled into one, daggers flashing, and the mage bashed another with his staff and the last fell from a crossbow bolt.

Once the demons fell, a gentle grip closed around his wrist, a ring of warmth.

Before Lavellan could ask, the elven mage raised it to the green, glowing thing, and Lavellan stared wide-eyed as he felt a strange connection run between him and it. There was a grinding noise before the green rip shattered and disappeared. Green sparks fluttered with the snow. His hand prickled with magical energy.

The mage let go of his wrist. Ring of coldness where his grip had been.

Lavellan blinked at him. “How did you do that?” he asked, rubbing the offending area.

The mage bowed his head and smiled, and Lavellan noted the steely blue of his eyes.

“I did nothing. The credit is yours,” he said, voice melodic and silver. The presence of another elf calmed Lavellan, somewhat. He explained the mark, called the green rip in space a rift, and Cassandra grumpily noted that she had already explained this to Lavellan.

“I tuned you out,” Lavellan admitted and her look soured. But he looked at the elven mage who radiated kindness with his soft gaze and pleasant smile. Lavellan suspected asking him questions would net better results. So he asked. And he was right. The mage answered him, absent of suspicion or accusations, delivered the answers with a calm amiability and a spark of curiosity that Lavellan took a shining to. It helped that his voice had a lyrical touch. He also managed to keep Lavellan alive. Bonus.

A little kindness amidst all the paranoid screaming. That was nice.

The dwarf introduced himself as Varric, his crossbow as Bianca. He’d never encountered many dwarves before, save merchants. He held a roguish charm about him which reminded Lavellan of a mischievous fox.

This was why he kept low expectations. Look, he ended up pleasantly surprised by these strangers. 

“My name is Solas,” introduced the elven mage and Lavellan tilted his head, smiled at the curious name.

“Solas,” he repeated. “An interesting name. Did you choose it?”

Solas kept smiling, but something glimmered in steely blue eyes, hue changing as the sky darkened with bulbous clouds of grey. His eyes matched the skies now.

“You will find that most names are never chosen,” said Solas. “No matter how much you believe them to be.”

Lavellan stared at him for the answer, and his smile only grew, intrigued.

“I am Mahanon,” he said. “Of Clan Lavellan.”

Solas inclined his head graciously. “A pleasure.”

Cassandra led the way ahead while Varric trailed behind, content to hum to himself as he meandered through the valley. Lavellan fell into step beside Solas, gravitating towards the few stable presences here.

“Thank you,” he said and Solas glanced at him.

“What for?” he asked.

“For being kind,” said Lavellan. “I am lost and confused in a world I don’t understand. Our Clan deals with humans, comparatively more than other clans, but this is all still… new to me.” He glanced up at the broken sky. “And now _that’s_ new to everybody. Everyone’s screaming at me, so thanks for not doing that. For being calm and understanding.”

“I… You are welcome.”

“You look surprised.”

“No, I― Thank you as well,” said Solas.

Lavellan frowned. “What for?”

Solas smiled. “For being kind.”

* * *

After Cassandra declared the Inquisition reborn and Lavellan promised to help them restore order because shit, what else could he do, he came sprinting towards Solas, greeted a quick, “Good morning!” before he yanked them inside Solas’ cabin.

Lavellan shut the door and Solas stared at him as if he lost his mind.

“Very sorry for that,” said Lavellan, out of breath, “but who _the fuck_ is Andraste?”

Unexpectedly, Solas laughed.

* * *

After Solas explained who Andraste was (the bride of the humans’ god) and why the establishment of their religion was in such a tizzy about Lavellan being her Herald (racism), and most things about that faith, Lavellan slumped in his seat. He rubbed his eyes.

“Oh what the hell have I gotten myself into?” Lavellan mumbled to himself. “What did I just promise myself to? And you’re saying I’ve just divided their religion?”

“Because they cannot accept that an elf could be their prophet, yes,” said Solas, sat on the chair across him with an easy yet subtle confidence that Lavellan somewhat envied. How was he so composed? “You have been thrust upon a difficult path. One you will have to tread with care. Many will scrutinise you.”

Lavellan passed a hand over his face. The implications of this… “Not just that. I have to be on best behaviour. Whether I wanted to be or not, I’ve suddenly become a representative of all the elves. Anything I do reflects on them. The _Herald of Andraste_ is mean and uncouth? Ah, burn the elves, I say! The lot of them are just like him!” 

“Yes,” said Solas although he examined Lavellan as if he were cast in a new light. “There is a necessity to posturing. If not for appearance, then survival.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” asked Lavellan. “I envied you your composure.”

“You need not envy me,” said Solas. “You are faring well, considering all things. You grasp that this is larger than you.”

“Isn’t it always?” he muttered and glanced out the window. “Us elves walk a fine line.”

Solas stared at him in this quiet space. The chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs as he regarded Lavellan. He moved quietly and efficiently. A result of the vagabond lifestyle, perhaps?

No, that was a hunter’s grace.

“I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilisations,” he said. “I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to re-enact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

“Hero,” Lavellan scoffed and stared at the floorboards. But the question was not rhetorical and Solas still expected an answer. He looked Solas in the eye. Dark grey in the dim cabin. “What do you think the answer is?” he redirected.

Solas’ lips twitched. “I am asking you.”

Worth a shot. Lavellan sighed. What kind of hero would he become?

“The one they need,” he answered.

Solas stared in further quiet and the astuteness of his gaze had Lavellan tensing. What was he looking for?

“You’re a Dreamer?” Lavellan asked to dispel it.

The astuteness eased, replaced by a gentle spark and a slight shift in his expression. Nothing overt. Subtle. A slight squinting of his eyes; brightened his face.

“Yes,” he said. “How could you tell?”

“Well you mentioned dreaming in ruins. My sister is a Dreamer and she does similar things, helps us see what old ruins were, what they were used for.” Lavellan leaned forward in excitement. “But I don’t think she’s gone as deep as you. That’s fascinating.”

Solas looked taken aback. “Thank you,” he said. “It is not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not as flashy as throwing fire or lightning.” A ghost of a wistful smile. “The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything.”

Lavellan smiled at the genuine wonder in his voice. Suddenly missed Ellana. The way she’d awake gasping in excitement as she shook him, saying, “Hanon, Hanon, guess what I found!” and he would listen in growing enthusiasm as she recounted whatever it was she retrieved from the Fade.

“I will stay then,” announced Solas and Lavellan frowned. “At least until the Breach is sealed.”

“Did you have plans to leave?” he asked.

He gestured at the window, the faint smile fading into a displeased line. “I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces. Cassandra _has_ been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

Lavellan worried his lip between his teeth in thought. “Well, I didn’t ask to be Herald but at least it grants me a modicum of authority. You came here to help, I’ll make sure you stay safe.”

“How would you stop them?” he asked.

Lavellan leaned back in his seat, surprised himself with his vehemence once he replied, “However I had to.”

Taken aback once more, Solas appraised him.

“You look doubtful,” said Lavellan.

“You would defend a nigh stranger?” asked Solas.

“I’d defend a friend.”

“A friend,” said Solas in slight disbelief.

“I consider you a friend,” said Lavellan and laughed mildly. “It’s fine if you don’t consider me one in return, I understand. We haven’t known each other long. But like I said, I appreciate the glimmer of kindness you’ve shown me.”

“Kindness,” Solas murmured, something unidentifiable in his eyes. Nevertheless, he smiled. Sincere, small as it was. “Thank you.”

Lavellan smiled back, considerably wider than Solas’. “Welcome.”

* * *

There was something steady and calm about Solas’ presence. Lavellan always sought him out. Whether in the middle of war-torn Hinterlands, the overwhelming opulence of Royeaux, the sea-salt air of the Storm Coast, or the pressing atmosphere of reverence and hesitance in Haven, Lavellan gravitated towards him. When screaming Chancellors had Lavellan gritting his teeth in forced politeness, he went to Solas. When the advisors argued over mages and Templars and gave Lavellan a headache, he went to Solas. When the worship of Haven’s people tracked like mud upon his skin, he went to Solas.

Most times, Lavellan just visited him for the sake of it. He liked Solas’ stories. Enjoyed listening to his tales from the Fade, delighted that he always had an answer for Lavellan’s endless stream of questions and never once told him he asked too many.

Lavellan became mindful of it at one point and stopped his barrage of questioning mid-sentence.

Solas canted his head. “Is something the matter?” he asked.

“I―” Lavellan’s cheeks flushed and he looked away. “I’m sorry. I’m pestering you with too many questions. Tell me if I’m bothering you with them and I’ll leave it be.”

“Why?” he asked, genuinely baffled. “Your questions are thoughtful, and often insightful. Not many meet the knowledge I share with curiosity, much less interest. Most fear it.”

Well, Lavellan could understand why. “I do fear it,” he admitted. “Some.”

“Yet you sit and listen to my perspective,” said Solas. “Despite how it upsets you. I am content to politely disagree at the end of such examples. So please, never apologise for inquiring. You have a brilliant mind and I would hate to see it dulled by those without the patience to explain.”

Lavellan’s brows raised at the declaration, but Solas merely smiled. His smile always softened his eyes. Lavellan liked it.

“You were asking about the varying influences of spirits in the physical realm?” encouraged Solas.

After a moment of hesitation, Lavellan smiled back.

* * *

His daggers glinted as he slashed through the air, uprooted a few poor blades of grass as he moved through the several forms of the Water Dance dagger style. Lavellan shook his head and muttered. 

“It is late, why are you still up?” came Solas’ melodious voice. 

Lavellan had retreated to a clearing a few ways away from where they made camp in the Hinterlands. The moon was high in the sky.

“I’m making modifications to my fighting style,” said Lavellan. “No good against mages who know how to fight back with their staff.” He glanced back at Solas over his shoulder. The moon’s angle cast severe shadows across his face, made him sharper than the image Lavellan came to associate him with, but his eyes were bright and silver. “Why are _you_ up? You’re usually asleep by now.”

“The Iron Bull’s snoring woke me,” he snorted. “And I awoke to find your bedroll empty.”

“Aww, did you get worried about little ol’ me?”

“Naturally,” he replied without prevarication. Solas approached, light and shadow sliding and playing across his form as he did, and for a moment, Lavellan felt as if something unseen lurked and prowled towards him. 

Oh knock it off. It was just Solas.

Solas stopped three large strides away from Lavellan. He retrieved his staff from his back and assumed a casual yet undeniably defensive stance.

“The air is not a worthwhile opponent,” he said. “Show me what you’ve devised so far.”

Lavellan blinked. Then grinned. “You sure?”

“I am.”

"I don't want to damage your staff."

"It has weathered the blades of Templars and mercenaries. Do not concern yourself with its durability."

“I won’t hold back.”

“Excellent. You would only insult me otherwise.”

Lavellan assumed an offensive stance. “Well, we can’t have that.”

He rushed at him. Solas countered him with ease and immediately, Lavellan noticed what worked and what didn’t better than if he had slashed at an imaginary opponent. He adjusted accordingly.

Solas made occasional inputs:

“No, it is a false opening, do not take it.” 

Or, “Ah, clever,” and Lavellan would dismiss his accelerated heart rate as exertion.

At some point, the experimentation ceased as Lavellan cemented which modifications worked and culled what did not. Solas didn’t seem to tire, which was impressive since Lavellan knew (not to brag) that his stamina was extensive.

“Well, well,” said Lavellan as he pressed Solas into the defensive, “you’re full of surprises. I had a feeling you’ve been holding back.”

Despite Lavellan’s clear advantage, Solas didn’t seem bothered. “Holding back?" Block, swipe, dodge. "I prefer ‘conserving my energy’. Underestimation is a powerful force, as I am certain you know.” Parry, slash, sidestep. “Merely employing it is insufficient. You must also recognise when it is being used against you.”

Lavellan's next slash missed. He wasn’t sure how it happened but he was now on the end of Solas’ relentless attacks, and he did _not_ pull his punches with that overglorified stick.

Good.

Lavellan laughed breathlessly. Surprise after surprise, this man. He was like the puzzle boxes Lavellan fiddled with when he was a child. It was smooth outside, an unremarkable wooden cube, but when it opened, all the compartments and mechanisms came to life. The trick was, you had to know how to put it back together, how to slide pieces a certain way, what rolled and what clicked and what swung, so it would return to an unassuming wooden box.

Solas was like that. The more Lavellan learned, the more mechanisms he uncovered, and here he was trying to figure out how the pieces fit together.

“Pay attention,” said Solas and jabbed Lavellan in the stomach.

“Oof.”

He hit the back of Lavellan’s knee with the staff and continued the motion until he swept Lavellan’s legs out. Lavellan crashed onto the grass, blinked in sudden disorientation.

Solas pressed the end of his staff against Lavellan’s chest.

“And you have died,” said Solas, amused.

Lavellan’s heartbeat battered against the staff and ridiculously, he thought the force would travel through the staff and alert Solas to it.

“Let me guess,” said Lavellan dryly, “you learned this one in the Fade?”

“Where else?” he asked.

He stared at Solas. “Not an answer,” he said.

His gaze sharpened. “Is it not?”

“Not a proper one.”

“Ah, and what constitutes a proper answer? One that is straightforward? You should know by now that nothing about the Fade is straightforward.”

“You dance an awful lot,” said Lavellan. 

Solas cocked his head. “Which manner of dance? Do the Dalish not refer to dancing as a moniker for another activity?”

“Dancing with the wolves, specifically,” said Lavellan, throat suddenly dry. A dance with the wolves. Sex. Was he... flirting? No, couldn't be. 

His gaze fell on the wolf jawbone necklace Solas always wore. 

Solas swiftly removed his staff.

“Come,” said Solas, already turning away. “It is late. You need rest.”

No. No, of course not. He wasn't flirting. 

“Go on ahead,” said Lavellan. “I’ll… watch the stars, for a while. Very nice view. Thanks for knocking me to the ground, really appreciate that.”

Solas stared at him but Lavellan kept his gaze on the skies.

Silence lapsed.

“Goodnight, Herald,” said Solas.

“Mahanon,” he corrected.

Silence. Lavellan thought he left.

But then Solas said, “Mahanon,” as if he sighed a sweet secret. Lavellan stopped breathing and resumed only once Solas had gone.

He let go of his daggers, never realised how tight his grip turned, and slung his arm over his eyes. 

His heart ran like a halla darting from a wolf.

* * *

Oh no.

* * *

“Well done with the Templars,” said Solas once Lavellan came shuffling inside his cabin. He didn’t know when they reached the point where Lavellan could just invade his cabin without invitation and Solas could do the same in return (though he rarely did), but it happened.

Lavellan fell onto his chair. _His_ chair. Unspoken, but it was his. Lavellan had made a space for himself in Solas’ dwelling and he was Dalish so he didn’t quite grasp the concept of permanent dwellings, but he doubted the notion of private space differed. He felt like a teenager sneaking into their crush’s aravel.

“Cullen was _really_ unhappy that I disbanded them.”

“I am unsurprised.”

Lavellan mussed his hair, ruined the careful arrangement of his braid, although he didn’t place much effort into it today. 

“I declare Envy demons the absolute _worst_ ,” he muttered. “At least Pride seems to have manners.”

Solas gave that small laugh of his, the one which ended with a light snort. Lavellan grinned and treasured the sound.

“You will find that often, those who are clever enough to know to be amiable will present the most trouble,” said Solas. “They appear as a friend when in reality, they would seek to do you harm. Pride is one such demon.”

“Are you trying to say something?” Lavellan asked.

“A warning, simply,” said Solas. “Status and power invites the sycophants, the envious, the liars, and the fearful alike. Be wary of who you trust.”

Lavellan stared at him. “Can I trust you?” he asked.

A pause. Solas stared back. 

“That is not something I can answer,” he eventually said. “It is ultimately your choice.”

“Then I choose to trust you,” declared Lavellan.

Solas stared down at his hands. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. “I do not deserve it, but thank you.”

* * *

Haven’s warning bells tolled.

* * *

“Go.”

His companions hesitated and Solas cast Lavellan a look he hadn’t seen before. Calm and composed Solas looked upon him with the face of a man about to lose what little he had. Lavellan gave them what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Quick,” said Lavellan. “Before this Elder One comes. I don’t want you to get caught in the avalanche.”

“But―” said Cassandra.

“Go.”

He met Solas’ gaze. 

“The one they need,” Lavellan reminded. A call to one of their first conversations when Solas had asked what kind of hero Lavellan would be. Solas turned away with a bitter twist to his lips. He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath before he marched forward and grabbed Cassandra and Varric.

“We have to go,” said Solas.

Cassandra and Varric fixed Lavellan with a helpless look but they let Solas drag them away. Lavellan watched them go. Thickness clogged his throat.

Still, he worked through it and called out, “Solas?”

Solas paused, glanced back at him.

Lavellan mustered his sincerest smile. “Thank you.”

His face fell. 

“Come back,” Solas bid, voice breaking into a whisper. 

Lavellan knew the promise was empty when said, “Okay. I will.”

He watched the three of them run until they disappeared from his sight. Lavellan took a steadying breath. Turned and faced the sky.

He thought of his Clan, of Ellana, and his heart twisted.

He thought of Solas.

Lavellan laughed feebly to himself. The laugh of a man about to die.

* * *

Death never came for him.

Something worse came for him. 

And here they were, kneeling before him as they sang a song he didn’t know, praised him as the prophet of a god he didn’t know.

His gaze fell on Solas across the camp. Just his presence calmed Lavellan enough that he could ignore the sinking in his stomach as the faithful praised him. Once the song ended and the kneeling stopped, Solas made his way towards Lavellan but he was already walking towards Solas.

Solas opened his mouth. 

Lavellan pulled him into an embrace. 

Solas tensed and Lavellan was prepared to move back, thoughts careening because shit, Solas struck Lavellan as the type who disliked touching in general since he always seemed so removed, but Solas returned the embrace before he could move away. Lavellan almost collapsed in relief. 

“I came back,” he whispered into Solas’ shoulder.

The entirety of the Inquisition could see them.

Lavellan couldn’t care less.

“Take me away from here, please,” he pleaded. Away from them and their expectant gazes.

“Anything,” Solas said and led him away.

* * *

“Holy shit,” Lavellan breathed once Solas presented Skyhold. “You know, when you said you had a place in mind, I thought you meant maybe a fortress?”

Solas leaned on his staff and smiled at Lavellan. “Is this not a fortress?”

“This is a castle.”

“Castles are fortified structures, are they not?” Solas stared at him. “Do you like it?”

“Like it?” Lavellan regarded the castle, placed the wonder aside for a moment and examined its suitability to house and defend the Inquisition. He tilted his head. “I think… you’ve given us a truly valuable gift. One we’ll try to be deserving of.”

“You already are,” murmured Solas. 

“If you’re going to gift me castles every time I almost die, should I endeavour to do it more often?” Lavellan teased.

“Refrain,” he said.

Lavellan laughed.

* * *

It took a few days to attend to housekeeping matters in Skyhold which kept Lavellan busy. He couldn’t see Solas often, if at all. 

Apparently being Inquisitor came with _paperwork_.

Varric had laughed and patted his back with a, “Good luck,” thrown over his shoulder as he walked away.

Lavellan was searching for a suitable writing space and entered the rotunda, meant to ascend to the library Dorian spoke of, but stopped once he found Solas inside, hunched over a table littered with papers. He looked up at Lavellan’s approach. Charcoal-stained fingers. Charcoal sketches.

“You draw,” said Lavellan in mild disbelief. He filed that away along with the other information he’d collected about Solas. He beamed. “That’s wonderful.”

Solas cleared his throat, glanced away. “Thank you,” he said. The tips of his ears reddened and Lavellan couldn’t quite curb his giddy grin.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come visit,” said Lavellan. 

“There is nothing to apologise for.” Solas straightened and grabbed a cloth to wipe his hands with. “You are now the Inquisitor. It comes with a new array of responsibilities.”

“Including paperwork,” he sighed. He’d written more in three hours than he had his whole life. Solas’ gaze fell on the stack of paper in Lavellan’s hands.

“Well, I would not wish to keep you,” said Solas. “I am certain you have more important things to attend to.”

Lavellan stared at the papers, then Solas who busied himself with clearing the sketches on the table.

“If you would like a desk,” said Solas, “you are free to occupy this one.”

Lavellan put the papers down but he made no move to start on them. Instead, he sat on the desk and tilted his head at Solas, grabbed his arm before he could walk away. Solas stared back in surprise.

“Inquisitor?”

Still strange being called that, especially from Solas.

“You’ve intrigued me,” said Lavellan. “I didn’t know you drew. I’d like to know more about you.” He paused, then shook his head. “No, you’ve long intrigued me, even before the drawing. Will you tell me more about yourself?”

Solas’ brows raised. “I… What would you know of me?”

“Whatever you feel comfortable disclosing.” Lavellan pursed his lips, resisted grimacing in embarrassment. That was too broad a subject area! “If that’s too vague, then―”

“No, there is―” Solas looked away in thought, before he smiled to himself. Fixed that smile on Lavellan who stopped breathing. He was still holding onto Solas’ arm. “You continue to surprise me. Alright, let us talk.” Solas raked his gaze around their surroundings with the scaffoldings and clutter and the fuss of the messenger ravens up at the rookery. “Preferably somewhere more interesting.”

“Not fond of raven droppings?” Lavellan laughed.

“To no one’s surprise, no,” said Solas.

* * *

They walked out of Haven’s chantry, the emerald nucleus of the Breach hanging bulbous in the wintry skies.

“I was frustrated, frightened,” admitted Solas and they stopped walking. He frowned at Lavellan. “The spirits I might have consulted have been driven away by the Breach. Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra, or she in me. I was ready to flee.”

“You know that wouldn’t have worked,” Lavellan murmured. “The Breach threatened the whole world. There would have been nowhere to run.”

“No,” Solas agreed. “Though I could have fled far away so I could research for a way to repair the Breach before its effects reached me.” He cast his hands out at the Breach. “I told myself: one more attempt to seal the rifts.” He hung his head. “To no avail. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee and yet…”

Solas turned and Lavellan lost his breath at the wondering look within his eyes.

“You had sealed it with a gesture,” he said, “and right then… I felt the whole world change.”

Lavellan’s lips parted, meant to say something, but the almost breathless manner in which Solas said it… Could he dare hope?

“Felt the whole world change?” Lavellan echoed, took a tentative step closer.

“A figure of speech,” Solas said, gaze flitting away.

His heart was in his throat. “Is that all there is?” he asked. Took another step. Solas looked at him then and they searched each other’s eyes, toed along the edge.

“You change… everything,” Solas breathed.

Lavellan was in his space now, close enough that Solas’ warmth reached him.

“When I thought death had come for me,” Lavellan murmured, “I had a few regrets in mind.” He reached for Solas who stayed still, watched him, and Lavellan fiddled with the string of his jawbone necklace. “And when I lived, I vowed to rectify it.”

“And what was this regret of yours?” Solas asked.

Lavellan took a steadying breath before he cupped Solas’ face and brushed a tentative kiss upon his lips. Barely even a proper kiss. The impression of one, a suggestion, an invitation.

He pulled away and appraised the reception. The wind howled.

Solas stared back, eyes wide, and Lavellan closed his eyes in pain. He’d read wrong. He turned away, moved to step back, heart twisting—

Strong grip around his arm, turned him.

And Solas kissed him. Stole Lavellan's breath as he did.

Lavellan’s awareness flooded with him, his warmth occupying every space Lavellan had to offer without resistance, as if that space was always meant for him. Solas deepened the kiss. Swiftly devolved into wet, hungering heat. He pulled Solas even closer, pressed against him to burrow and settle in that heat, the jawbone necklace biting into ribs.

Although breathing was a thing. Breathing was an annoying thing.

Lavellan broke the kiss and caught his breath, dazed. He chased Solas’ lips again before the cold could settle between them, aware of every point of contact they shared. Hitched breath as Solas drew Lavellan’s bottom lip into his mouth and bit. Lavellan clawed down Solas’ back and gripped at his tunic.

It was Solas who pulled away next, panted into each other’s mouths.

“We shouldn’t,” Solas murmured, voice rough, the movements of his lips teasing along Lavellan’s. “It isn’t right. Not even here.”

Lavellan took a while to reassemble his coherency and all he could manage was a scattered, “Wha?”

Solas smiled.

Lavellan kissed that smile and tasted it for himself. Solas pulled away again (with some difficulty) and Lavellan growled.

“Mahanon,” Solas whispered and Lavellan's knees almost gave. He said it as if it were something precious he carefully tucked into the folds of silken cloths. “Not here.”

Not here…?

Lavellan regathered what focus he could muster — difficult, considering Solas was still holding him and Lavellan would rather be kissing him until the world disappeared — and carefully examined the surroundings.

The Breach.

Haven.

Oh…

“We’re dreaming,” he mumbled, deflated. “This isn’t real.”

Solas’ hold tightened. “You know better than to think it so simple.” He pressed their foreheads together. “But the debate is best discussed after you—

_wake up_

* * *

Lavellan’s eyes snapped open and he stared at the ceiling of his new chambers.

He pressed trembling fingers to his lips.

Holy shit.

He laughed breathlessly to himself.

Holy shit!

* * *

He couldn’t visit Solas again because the moment he stepped into the Great Hall, Josephine and Leliana dragged him away to talk about Halamshiral and he wanted to yell, “Solas just kissed me, please move out of the way, I need to see him _now_.”

Alas, he was Inquisitor and he had duties.

It wasn’t until evening that he was freed and Lavellan dashed to the rotunda.

Solas was by the desk again, this time examining a stack of books. He glanced up at Lavellan’s arrival.

They stared at each other. Lavellan took a calming breath before he approached and Solas placed the book atop his formidable stack.

“Sleep well?” Solas asked, the hints of teasing in his tone.

Lavellan swallowed so his throat would receive the note that it was time to function. “That was… I— I’ve never done anything like that before. The dream, I mean. Not— I’ve kissed before, but— You know what? I’m shutting up.”

Solas chuckled, smiling fondly, but the smile faded and his gaze dropped. “I… apologise,” he said. “The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered and I should not have encouraged it.”

He shot Solas an unconvinced look. “Says the man who started with tongue.”

“I did no such thing!”

“Oh? Did I imagine it? Pardon me, I’m not quite sure if tongues work the same way in the Fade,” he said, grinning in mischief. “Perhaps you should try it again? For research purposes.”

A brief flicker of consideration. Then he shook his head as if talking himself out of it.

“This is not wise,” said Solas. “Taking things further could lead to trouble. Let the kiss remain a dream.”

Lavellan frowned at him. “Is that what you want?” he asked.

Solas hesitated.

He sighed. Alright, he was doing this. “Solas, I like spending time with you. More than that, I like _you_ and I’d like to take things further if you’re willing to take that chance.”

“I… may be.” Solas stared at his books as if they could give him his answer, innumerable thoughts and emotions flickering in his eyes as refractions of light would on a disturbed surface of water. “If I could take a little time to think. There are… considerations.”

Lavellan’s gaze softened. “Take your time,” he said and meant it.

“Are you truly willing to wait?” Solas asked, smiled wryly. “I am indecisive. It could take a while.”

“You’re worth waiting for.”

He looked at Lavellan, wide-eyed and caught off-guard by the sentiment.

Lavellan smiled at him. “I’d love to stay and talk but there are a few more things that require my attention.”

“Of course,” he said. “I would not wish to take up too much of your time.”

A short lapse of silence. Lavellan wrung his fingers.

“Whatever choice it is you make, I hope we still remain as friends.”

“Your company is one I prize. I do not wish to lose it too.”

Lavellan lingered, deliberated, before he pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of Solas’ lips. He turned and left, heart ramming into his ribs as a wild animal would the metal bars of its cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good old days where Lavellan was happy and got enough sleep. 
> 
> Mahanon "everyone was MEAN and SCREAMING but the bald hobo mage gently held my hand and smiled at me so guess I'm in love with him now" Lavellan.  
> vs  
> Mahanon "everyone was MEAN and SCREAMING but my disaster ex grabbed me and I almost shanked him for it because if someone's going to get stabbed again, it ain't gonna be me" Lavellan.
> 
> Also, his answer of being "the hero they need" definitely stuck with Solas. In the WORST possible way. Lavellan absolutely kicks himself about this after the Fen'Harel reveal.
> 
> YES THERE ARE INSTANCES IN THIS WHERE THEY SPEAK VERSE OR HALLELUJAH CADENCE AT EACH OTHER. Go spot them if you'd like. (Not counting Solas' in-game ones)
> 
> Lavellan: Thank you for being kind  
> Lavellan: I choose to trust you  
> Lavellan: You're worth waiting for  
> Solas:  
> Solas: oh no💕


	4. Cor aut mors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Doesn't matter where you're caught up to]
> 
> It's poetry. It's literally just poetry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a project due soon so obviously I do what anyone does in my situation and procrastinate.
> 
> By writing poems. Yeah. Poems. I don't usually write poems. But apparently, I think too much about this fic and listening to Dark Sanctuary albums on repeat to vibe puts ideas in your head.
> 
> So yeah, have some fucking poetry.
> 
> (Strike two for obnoxious Latin chapter title)

* * *

The raven’s claws within my heart,  
my teeth in his  
Beat, abreast — we are but two  
Sinking sharp spaces  
Until we bleed  
on all we know

* * *

Delphinium, dogbane  
Hemlock, pain  
None which stings so much as you

Honeyed vein  
Cinnamon stain  
None which taste as sweet as you

* * *

“Curse upon you, lover,  
and all you hold dear.”

“You are mistaken, dear lover,  
for all I hold dear is dead but you.”

“Then I shall die, too.”

* * *

Tender teeth tears my heart  
Scatter entrails of my love

Hateful hands hold my heart  
See now, this is all I have

* * *

mamae, mamae, you warned me once  
of monsters in the deep, dark woods  
of dreadful Wolves, their clever claws

mamae, mamae, you warned me once  
his words will taste of summer rain  
his eyes will sing of sharp, sweet pain

he’ll bite my hand and rend my soul  
he’ll grip my flesh, live in my bones  
and nestle in the marrow  
and become all I’ll ever know

but mamae, oh mamae,  
you never said, and never warned  
of how the swell of him in me  
would feel so true and warm

you never said, and never warned  
that he was lost

and can never be found

or so he says

after all, mamae, you said  
The Dread Wolf always lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, didn't you know? I like being dramatic.


	5. [Solas] That Goddamn Bath Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Should be caught up to Chapter 38]
> 
> The Halamshiral preparations left Lavellan fatigued and overworked, unable to rest and succumb to his exhaustion. Solas offered to help him start a bath in the newly opened bathhouse to relax.
> 
> In hindsight, this was not his wisest of ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of yall requested a Solas POV for Chapter 38 and luckily, I already had one written beforehand HAHAHA-- It was a bit outdated so I polished it up a bit. Here you go. Have fun.

This was a mistake.

Terrible choice after terrible choice, he feared, made him a creature of habit. Cursed to forever pursue unwise decisions. What had possessed him to lead Lavellan to the baths? There were other options for respite that he could have suggested.

Furthermore, what had possessed him to _stay_?

No. It was no possession. This was simple weakness on Solas’ part. It was pure misfortune that Lavellan had somehow wormed his way into the short list of things that Solas had difficulty refusing or resisting. And so, despite the pragmatic part of him advising him to leave, he crumbled the moment Lavellan called for him to stay, his panic subtle yet alive beneath his mask of nonchalance which Solas saw through. Metal walls turned to paper. Folded beneath the wave.

And perhaps this was Solas’ greed rearing its unsightly head. Lavellan all to himself. A rare occurrence given his never-ending responsibilities and duties. Could Solas be faulted for relishing moments where Lavellan’s sole focus was on him?

Yes, he supposed he could be.

But Solas was content to pretend that he heeded Lavellan’s request to stay because of impulse and irrationality borne of fatigue and a desire to ensure Lavellan didn’t exhaust himself. He was… merely looking after the Inquisitor. Their Inquisitor who excelled at caring for others yet couldn’t extend the same courtesy to himself.

That was all.

Lavellan tipped his head back and angled it towards the mural Solas painted several lifetimes ago, the slender length of his neck gleaming from the flickering dance of torchlight reflecting on the sheen of bathwater coating his skin.

 _That is all_ , he hissed at himself as his eyes followed the thin cord of muscle on Lavellan’s neck down to the hollow of his clavicles where a small droplet of water rested.

“Did you paint this?” asked Lavellan. Solas, glad for the distraction, pinned his gaze on the mural.

“Yes,” he said.

“Beautiful as always.”

The flush of pride curled like a lambent flame and Solas swallowed back a smile. “You flatter me.”

Solas was still skilled in his youth, but now he could pick apart the imperfections in the piece, places where he was too impatient with the plaster, where the colours he brought forth were far too vivid for the piece. Surely Lavellan discerned the minute mistakes.

“It’s truth,” said Lavellan with the same conviction he wielded when rendering his judgements.

Lavellan stared at the artwork. Solas stared at him.

How easily he said such things. If he knew how Solas’ regrets spilled upon the pigments whenever he held the brush now…

Documenting Lavellan’s achievements — the _Inquisition’s_ achievements, he corrected himself since Lavellan hated the actions of many being dismissed as the actions of one — was Solas’ pitiful attempt of a premature apology. And a remembrance. What else could he do? Defenceless against the onslaught of ways Lavellan upturned the foundations of Solas’ world, what else could he do but bare the confession upon the walls with his own painstaking effort?

However short a time he had left in Lavellan’s presence, Solas would make sure he imprinted the moments in this fortress no longer just his. It was _theirs_ now. No longer so cold, empty, built to repel. Lavellan, sunlit as he was, had changed it into a warm, fulfilling place. Built to shelter.

So he said, “I can paint something else, if you’d like.”

Lavellan moved his head to look at him which displaced the droplet in the dip of his clavicle. Solas would mourn its loss if it didn’t slip down Lavellan’s chest. He cursed it instead.

“What, on this wall?” he asked.

Solas wiped the artwork clean in his mind, recalled how the rain of sunshine past the canopies of the Emerald Graves kissed and bronzed Lavellan’s skin. Turned his eyes molten. Stared at Solas with an intense promise in his gaze and words alike. He had no need for daggers or arrows or elemental flasks to be dangerous. His presence alone was enough to knock Solas off-balance. His deeds and words alike a vicious riptide that Solas struggled against less and less. And that was the true danger. Lavellan couldn’t sway him. Solas couldn’t let him.

And yet…

And yet.

“A scenery reminiscent of the Emerald Graves since you seemed to enjoy the forest,” said Solas, focused instead on planning the mural rather than the doomed outcome of this unwise attraction. Lavellan loved the sunlight needling through the canopies. Enjoyed their dancing shapes on the forest floor. Occasionally, Lavellan would stop and stare skywards, allowed the sun and leaves to use him as a canvas as he submerged himself in the dappled tempest of sunshine. One time, he held his hands out palm-up as one would when feeling the rain, a serene smile on his lips.

The image struck and stayed with Solas. Itched to capture it. Despaired because no medium could ever replicate it and now it would become yet another vision to haunt him in his future.

But if he could at least replicate the sensation of sunlight as rain, of leaves as clouds, of the forest as the sky… If he could at least give that to Lavellan—

“No,” said Lavellan. Solas jerked his head to stare at him. No? “It’s got all the constellations. Also, the colours are so rich and— Well, it’s fine. Leave it.” He smiled at the mural which made Solas unreasonably envious of the artwork. “I like it.”

“Thank you,” was all Solas could say, once again stunned. If it was his habit to make terrible choices, was it Lavellan’s to stupefy Solas at every turn?

Lavellan had discerned the minute details in the mural after all. Only, he saw wonder over mistakes.

Despite himself, his fondness grew.

_Curse be upon you; you are Wisdom no longer._

The one correct thing Elgar’nan said, at the very least.

The water rippled as Lavellan sank deeper and closed his eyes, the water resting just below his chin, neck and chest disappearing below and Solas was unsure if that was a blessing or a curse. Without Lavellan’s keen eyes on him, Solas could gaze freely.

 _Look somewhere else_ , he snapped at himself. Yet how could he? Lavellan commanded attention, narrowed Solas’ focus. But it could not be. He could not allow Lavellan to pull him away from the tower he sequestered himself into. The tower where he could observe the distant future and predict, plan, prepare. Could not allow him to drag Solas into the fields where the distant future faded, replaced by the air and sunlight fresh on his skin, where he could _breathe_ and forget after so many centuries.

But he did not belong on the fields. His presence would poison it, and he wished for Lavellan to have it for as long as possible before Solas upset the very soil

And Lavellan would not content himself with staying still as it happened. He would defend that field.

To his dying breath.

It was inevitable now. They were geared to be diametric.

Solas _would_ pull himself away but his efforts thus far had been unsuccessful. Not for lack of trying. His efforts always met the wall of Lavellan’s persistence or indifference.

What Dalish elf would challenge the Dread Wolf out of amusement or irritation rather than genuine spite or malice? What Dalish elf would accept the truth of the Evanuris with such aplomb? What Dalish elf would challenge the preconceived notions Solas had of this current world and its denizens, and worse, succeed? Because Solas questioned.

Because with every passing hour, the realness bled into this world so unlike his own.

Because now, Lavellan was not the only splash of colour within it. 

Because now, the outer canvas was bright and vivid and Solas hesitated to push the fire closer and burn that layer away to reveal the one beneath. The layer that was _his_ world.

They both had colour. 

He could not abandon his plans. He must pursue it. If he did not muster the courage to burn the outer canvas, both canvases would suffer.

Solas would fix Lavellan with a baleful glare, would place the blame at his feet if Solas were a more hateful man. As it was, he was more jaded than hateful. This was his mistake to bear and Lavellan bore enough. Most of the weight Lavellan carried in the first place was from the blunders Solas wrought in his pride and impatience.

If he could ease some…

Well, that was why he suggested the baths. Staying was not on the itinerary. Lavellan always made Solas stupid, however, and Lavellan had looked so uncertain when Solas made to leave. And somewhat frightened. Of being left alone. 

Alone with his thoughts.

For all the light Lavellan cast into the world, something dark lingered within his mind.

He gazed upon Lavellan across the yawning distance between them. Lavellan’s serene expression had slowly twisted into a frown while Solas wasn't looking. He resisted sighing at himself for the oversight. Leaving Lavellan to his thoughts was tonight’s antagonist and Solas all but handed Lavellan to it.

“You are frowning,” he said, practically heard the whirring of Lavellan’s mind at work. Solas would scold the others for overworking him so, but he understood its necessity. _Everybody_ was overworked. Halamshiral was an important event.

What would Lavellan be like at court? Would he excel? Would he spite every second of it? Solas leaned towards the latter since his great dislike of Orlais and its treatment of its lower-class citizens was no great secret. 

Lavellan opened his eyes, wide with confusion as they blinked at Solas. “Huh?”

“This is not enough to calm you, is it?”

His teeth flashed as it chewed on his bottom lip and Solas stared far too long at it.

“No,” sighed Lavellan which snapped Solas’ attention away. “Mind’s still racing.”

“How can I help?”

“Do you have a spell that can turn my thoughts off?” Lavellan asked, smile wry. “Just for a while so I can have pure blissful quiet.”

He had no such spell, alas. However… The few times Solas had seen him throughout the weeks, Lavellan had been massaging his own neck and shoulders with a grimace, the action growing more frequent as the preparations progressed.

An idea crawled traitorously into his head. It would shame him on any other occasion, but as he said, being in Lavellan’s presence made him foolish.

He stood before he could think better of it and his body already moved, heavy as the water saturated the robes, feet slapping against the floor as he approached the cabinets. Opened and beheld the array of bottles. Soaps, fragrances, but not what he was after.

Where did they—

“Ah,” he said and plucked the three vials of fragrant oils. With those in hand, he approached Lavellan, though the decrease in proximity was as detrimental as the surplus of it. Within a significant distance, Solas’ foolishness was limited to staring. But now, Lavellan was within reach. Solas need only stretch his arm and he could cup Lavellan’s cheek, draw his thumb across Lavellan’s bottom lip glistening with water, red from his nervous habit of biting it.

He knelt and distracted himself with presenting the fragrances. Smiled as he chose Solas’ favourite.

Lavellan watched him, asked, “Which would you have chosen?” It took all of Solas’ willpower to keep his gaze level on Lavellan’s face and avoid the temptation of counting his individual lashes.

“The same.”

He departed from Lavellan’s side, found it as painful as pulling the wrapping from a wound which clotted with the material. Busied himself with preparing the oil on a brazier instead.

“What’s it for?” Lavellan asked.

“To diffuse the scent,” he answered and returned the vials. Not only that. In Elvhenan, fragrant oils would be threaded with magic to encourage certain atmospheres. Temples used it, though in the form of incense, to better promote clarity for meditations or arduous rituals. Baths used it to prompt all manners of relaxation. Nobles used it for a variety of purposes. Lovers used it to encourage amorousness.

Solas stepped away from the brazier as if it could rip him away from the advent of such thoughts. He glanced at Lavellan. His idea from earlier settled stubbornly in his mind. His serious consideration of it was doubly worse. What did that reveal about him? That he sought to endanger their careful dynamic if only so he could touch what he was allowed under the guise of assistance. Solas should write the idea off.

And yet, he said, “As for not thinking…” and neared Lavellan who shot him a devastatingly endearing, quizzical look. Solas entered the baths beside him.

“Turn,” he said with a confidence he couldn’t feel.

“Why?” Lavellan asked.

“I am going to give you a massage,” he explained, one foot already in the grave.

Lavellan stared, could only muster a confused noise. As if the concept were foreign. No, surely not. The Dalish were liberal with physical affection. As evidenced by Lavellan _constantly_ touching arms, patting shoulders, hugging and slinging his arm around his friends.

_His hands searing on Solas’ cheeks as he declared his dream of abolishing slavery and giving the elves a home._

The places he touched always remained warm throughout the day, as if some of his light escaped and scorched a part of Solas.

But that was him being liberal with his own touches. Humans were far more reserved about such things, and Lavellan’s ascendancy to prophet and military leader likely intimidated a majority too much to try and ever do anything of such familiarity. Some of the inner circle had no such qualms. Still, the absence of physical affection would be felt.

“When was the last time you had one?” Solas asked. Rather, when was the last time someone had casually touched him? How frequent? Solas would bring up the matter to the inner circle later. It was cruel to deprive someone of one of their languages of connection.

“Three years ago, maybe. I’m not sure. Maybe longer.” Lavellan peered at him and while Solas resisted the earlier temptation to count his lashes, he couldn’t resist the temptation of basking in the sole intensity of Lavellan’s focus now. “I, uh, are you sure? I don’t want to trouble you.”

Solas almost clicked his tongue. What would it take for this man to think of himself first for once? “It is no trouble.”

Lavellan had his reservations but he still shuffled towards the wall and turned his back to Solas. The sheer robe had plastered to the planes of Lavellan’s back and peeling it off was the closest activity Solas would entertain as a religious experience.

 _Get a hold of yourself_.

The robe fell, pooled and floated around their waist while Lavellan’s back laid bare for him.

He placed his hands on Lavellan’s shoulders as if seeking mercy from the overwhelming expanse of skin Lavellan allowed him to touch. His skin was warm from the bath water. Tense muscles beneath, wrought tight and coiled. Too coiled. How much tension did Lavellan hold in his body?

A small shiver wracked Lavellan. Perhaps from the cold. No matter, Solas would warm him up soon enough.

“What?” Lavellan huffed at Solas’ displeased noise.

Did he truly not realise he carried at least three lifetimes’ worth of knots in his muscles? Incredible, this man.

“Lethallin… I believe I may be holding stone rather than muscle.”

Lavellan laughed and Solas bottled the sound. “Hey! Drawing a bow is hard work and so are flailing daggers around.”

“There is a great difference between toned and knotted.” And Lavellan’s was both. Solas braved it and massaged slow circles into the tense muscle of his shoulders. It met incredible resistance. Lavellan hissed and Solas eased the pressure, observed the reception. Settled on a pressure that Lavellan seemed agreeable to, if his head slowly tipping forward was any indication. Solas misbehaved once more. Gazed upon the knobs of his spine pressing gracefully below skin, droplets sliding off the curve of his neck.

He ran his thumbs over a length of muscle. A length of stubborn muscle. Solas doubted it was muscle at all.

“What?” Lavellan asked again. Solas must have been grumbling.

“You are strung tighter than a harp string stretched to his limits,” he muttered.

Lavellan raised his head and laughed once more. “Beg your pardon, Solas. Haven’t exactly had time to ask someone for a massage and it’s not as if it was at the forefront of my concerns either.”

“You shouldn’t have to ask. You should be lavished with offers to help you for all the help you have provided. Given luxuries.”

“Dorian said almost the same thing. Something along the lines of me being handfed grapes?” He chuckled and Solas’ irrational stab of envy at the Tevinter mage made him press harder as he kneaded the knot beside Lavellan’s shoulder blades.

Lavellan sighed in contentment and Solas almost stilled.

“Besides,” Lavellan murmured, “you know that’s not the kind of person I am.”

“I know.” He viewed leadership as a position with a responsibility to the masses rather than a seat of power. Perhaps a result of his Dalish upbringing as the Warleaders of the clans were tasked with ensuring the entire clan had food and protection. For all of the Dalish’s faults, they did one thing right, and that was raising Lavellan. Though Lavellan would hate that sentiment if Solas voiced it. “I know.”

He eyed the crest of muscle beside the dip of Lavellan’s spine and pressed his fingers into it. The muscle refused to give. Solas grabbed Lavellan’s shoulder for purchase and dug the heel of his palm into the stubborn thing.

“Having trouble?” Lavellan teased.

“Your back is as stubborn as its owner.”

Lavellan laughed. At least one of them derived amusement out of this.

Solas applied too much force and Lavellan’s elbows slipped as Solas sent him lurching. Lavellan’s laughter doubled. His laughter always rippled throughout his body, and Solas always thought it endearing but not _now_. He struggled to continue with Lavellan making such a fuss.

“Stop laughing,” he hissed. “Your shoulders are shaking— Stop _moving_.”

“Stop making me laugh then!” He turned to Solas with an irritating grin, poked the corner of Solas’ lips. “You’re smiling.”

Alas, Lavellan’s mirth was infectious and Solas’ lips threatened to curl into a smile. He turned Lavellan by the shoulders before he could see the smile and grow even more irritating. 

“I saw that smile,” Lavellan sang.

“Perhaps the exhaustion has addled your head.”

“You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if it did.” No, and neither would Solas. At least his small bout of amusement loosened him.

It took some coaxing, but finally, the muscle relented. Lavellan relaxed further.

“Better,” Solas said, pleased. The fragrant oil had diffused properly now, discernible amidst the hazy steam. “Are you still thinking?”

“I—” Lavellan never finished his sentence once Solas worked at another knot. His back had warmed from Solas’ hand. How long until it would feel searing?

Lavellan quieted. Solas would worry that he was causing discomfort, but his silence seemed to stem more from relaxation.

Nobody spoke. Solas couldn’t, if he tried. Here Lavellan was, warm and pliant beneath his hands, trapped between an unforgiving wall and an indecisive god.

He made a soft noise of contentment once Solas finished unknotting the muscle he’d been working at. Solas took a steadying breath. It was likely unnecessary for Solas to linger his hands too close to the folds of Lavellan’s robes hugging his hips. A droplet slid down the groove of his spine. Seeped into the fabric. Solas had gravitated closer, only realised once Lavellan asked, “Do you have any memories of these baths?”

“Yes,” he answered before he could think better of it. Always so eager to cater for him. Solas should be ashamed of how quick he was to succumb. He must take care. The last time he gave himself, he was branded with her mark.

“Tell me?” Lavellan requested.

_Shall I whisper the tale over your neck? Across your lips?_

Behave.

As always, Solas could never decline Lavellan’s request for stories. Lavellan was ravenous for them and Solas was only too happy to provide, cherished the glimmer in Lavellan’s eyes or the relaxation it granted him after a long day.

_“I like keeping our storytelling sessions between us.”_

His heart clenched.

If Solas gave a part of himself to Lavellan, what would Lavellan do with it?

How long had it been since he felt this way? For Solas to even consider the notion…

“Back in the time of Elvhenan…” he started and told the tale of the young and cocky elf who owned this castle. Truly foolish he was then. More than he already was. And yet he had felt things on a frightening magnitude; anger, righteousness, _love_. What did he have to show for love? A faded vallaslin, a faded empire, dead friends. All because of _love_.

And now look at him. Pathetically sweeping the scraps of Lavellan’s attention into a ramshackle sack.

“He sounds lonely,” said Lavellan.

 _“Because you look lonely,”_ he had remarked as he gave Solas the wolf carvings.

_How could I be lonely when I have you here with me?_

“Do you think so?” Solas asked. Recounted the times he brought dalliances into these baths, partook in endeavours of the flesh as if that would fill the strange void in his chest, but it would be a disfavour to call Lavellan that. He was more. More to Solas than another faceless body to soothe the void. 

Real and alive and in Solas’ hands and yet he was in Lavellan’s too.

“Lost faith tells me that he first loved without reserve.”

Solas resisted laughing brokenly. Always so perceptive, this one. He splayed his fingers and roamed it over Lavellan’s back as if meaning to say, “Well done.”

“Who was this elf?” asked Lavellan.

_Me, it is me. I am here. See me. Please._

“Fen’Harel,” Solas admitted. Lavellan faced him with wide, golden eyes. Eyes usually so keen and focused now glazed and distracted. Another lambent curl of pride within him. It was not often Lavellan’s concentration broke, and for Solas to be the cause of it…

“You’re not joking,” said Lavellan.

Solas smiled, thoughts straying to other activities which may turn Lavellan’s gaze unfocused as well but banished those as quick as he turned Lavellan by the shoulders once more. Always sought to touch him. Now that Solas knew the feel of Lavellan’s skin beneath his palms, would he ever be satisfied just watching from a distance?

“Why let us stay in his castle?”

_Because I wanted to give you what I could. Because it was needed. Because I held you shivering in the cold and I wanted to take all that pain away._

“Who is to say?” he said and held the true answers locked tight within his heart. Evidently not the answer Lavellan wished to hear but Solas soothed his frustration with another deep press into his back. Lavellan cursed. Solas couldn’t help but chuckle and took that to mean he was doing a satisfactory job.

What other story could he tell? He used to excel at improvising and weaving a story as he told it. Should he attempt it?

“I have another story.”

Lavellan took a while to answer. “Truth or fiction?” Even then, he sounded dazed. Solas smiled to himself, pleased at having been able to reduce Lavellan’s coherency.

“Fiction. Although it could be construed as truth. All stories, even those made to entertain, are truthful once you see yourself within it.”

“Go ahead then.”

And so, he spun the tale of the Clever Star. The hunter with the sunlit bow and starlit sword, faceless at the beginning of his story, and yet Lavellan easily filled the gaps. The hunter became Lavellan. As Solas told the story, he grew more adventurous and dared to trail his hands lower, sometimes massaged in tandem with the story. Lavellan yelped when Solas pressed around his neck.

“Ticklish?” 

Lavellan cupped his hands over his nape. “No,” he grumbled. “Just… sensitive.”

 _Sensitive_. Solas filed that information away into the niche in his head which he cleared for anything about Lavellan. It was worrying that Lavellan had permanent residence in his thoughts. 

Solas avoided his neck.

His story unravelled, the chase between the Dread Wolf and the hunter intensifying, culminating in a final, terrible encounter. And perhaps Solas projected somewhat. The Dread Wolf mimicked calls for help, mimicked injured animals themselves, exploited the hunter’s caring nature. Was that not what he was doing now? The farce of being less than what he was. 

To mark the story’s end, he dug the heel of his palm into the muscle beside Lavellan’s spine and kneaded upwards. Lavellan’s back arched, his front pressing against the bath wall.

_Trapped between an unforgiving wall and an indecisive god._

“Fen’Harel leapt and fell upon the hunter,” he narrated, the skin beneath him warm, too warm. Radiated it. Snared Solas in its embrace and no matter how it burned, he only gravitated further. Moth to a flame. An overused yet fitting adage.

_Shall I fall upon you? Teeth and claws?_

Lavellan didn’t look at him. “What happened next?” he asked and Solas couldn’t dismiss the tremor in Lavellan’s voice as Solas’ own wishful thinking.

“Some say the hunter escaped.” His gaze followed an errant droplet of water cascading down the slide of Lavellan’s back, turned golden from the reflection of the firelight. Solas rested his hands on Lavellan’s hips, resisted the urge to grip as if he could steady himself against Lavellan’s overwhelming presence. He need only lean forward and Lavellan’s bare skin would be pressed against his chest. Could kiss down the slender length of Lavellan’s neck. “Although, some also say that night, the Dread Wolf feasted on a star.” What a feast it would be, too, if Lavellan were the hunter. Solas would take his time. Savour and yet indulge. Lay him bare beneath him so he could take his time to map out every surface of him.

“Are you sure that’s how it ends?”

The question startled a smile out of Solas. “Is it not?”

“The hunter claimed that Fen’Harel would have his answer _when_ , not _if_ , he found a way to snare and catch the hunter,” he said. “This means it was deliberate so that the trick the Dread Wolf sought would end up being his hidden yet sure downfall.”

Solas’ heart skipped. Lavellan spoke in verse. Did he realise? Was it purposeful?

“I know what makes the traps compelling,” continued Lavellan.

“Oh?” he whispered, intrigued. Solas spun for him a tapestry and here he came with a golden thread of his own to add. What wondrous thing would he weave with it? “What felled him?”

Lavellan turned and their eyes met briefly, golden and fierce which fanned yet doused the heat within him. Of course. How foolish of Solas. Lavellan was a storm and Solas could hold him down and bare him as much as he wanted but Lavellan would fight back with a vicious grin.

“The illusion of victory,” Lavellan answered, gaze dropping. If Solas took that as a sign of deference and leapt, would Lavellan flash him a savage smile at the final moment and sink his teeth into Solas instead? Be the one victorious? But then, whose victory was the illusion?

“So who truly won?” Solas asked.

Lavellan made to answer, but he yawned instead and blinked in bewilderment after.

Solas was reminded of his intentions in the first place and berated himself for indulging this much. This was dangerous. He had to— Lavellan was dangerous. Lavellan himself was the trap and the Dread Wolf fell for it and true to his story, Solas suspected he would enjoy every second of damnation it brought. 

He pulled his hands away, stepped back, back, back while he still had the willpower to resist. Lavellan stared at him. Seemed irritated with himself but no, Solas couldn’t entertain that.

“Ah, splendid. It worked,” said Solas, masked his panic. He almost— 

“Beg pardon?” grumbled Lavellan. 

“You fall asleep easier when told a story.” It was painful, wedging this distance between them. The separation was terrible. And that in and of itself was a terrible sign. “Let us get you back to your quarters. Before the water turns cold.” The water would never turn cold so long as Solas kept it warm. They could stay here indefinitely, forever, away from the world and the burdens it pressed and the faces of their mistakes.

But it could not be.

Though Solas was not as strong-willed as he thought.

Because come later when Lavellan dreamt, he shamelessly invaded the space and hunted the hunter, showered Lavellan with the thrill of the chase.

And he found a conclusive end to the tale he spun.

The Dread Wolf feasted on a star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's fucking besotted, it's frankly embarrassing and heartbreaking. As thirsty and sad as a Lana Del Rey song.
> 
> I didn't go into the dream because I wanted to preserve the rawness of it by keeping Solas' thoughts a bit of an unknown. Some things we will never be privy to...


	6. Incorrect shit the itfoyl cast says

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A collection of text shitposts. That's it. No literary action going on here. Just me deliriously laughing at abysmally unfunny things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you do when you got a report due that's already late and every day you feel that 5% penalty hitting your results but you're too low on serotonin to actually start it?
> 
> Shitty incorrect quotes!!

* * *

Cassandra about Lavellan: i would follow him to hell and back but i just wish he'd stop going there

* * *

Varric: oh i'll do it, but i'm gonna complain loudly about it the whole time

* * *

Lavellan: so apparently the 'bad vibes' i've been feeling is actually 'severe psychological distress'

* * *

Lavellan: based off of statistical evidence, i am, in fact, immortal

Solas: what is your evidence?

Lavellan: im not dead yet

Solas:

* * *

Lavellan: i have a plan

Cassandra: it cannot involve self-sacrifice

Lavellan: i no longer have a plan

* * *

Sera: the rich should get robbed at least once a week

Dorian, a noble: why?

Sera, already picking his pockets: builds character

* * *

Lavellan: it's my gods-given bisexual right to be dramatic

* * *

Josephine: i am at a loss for words!

Lavellan: despite being at a loss for words, Jo continued to yell at me for an hour

* * *

Lavellan: i live for two reasons

Ellana: and what's that

Lavellan: i was born and i haven't died yet

* * *

Lavellan: i just slept for 15 hours what did i miss

Bull: this dick

Lavellan: oh good i thought i missed something big

* * *

Solas: i believe my judgement of character is better than yours

Lavellan: why

Solas: because you chose me and i chose you

* * *

Vivienne: is there anything you are actually capable of doing

Sera: putting up with you

* * *

Solas: what are we?

Lavellan: elves?

Solas: no, i mean... what _are_ we?

Lavellan:

Lavellan: traumatised...?

* * *

Ellana: Hanon, wake up

Lavellan: i'm not sleeping, i'm dead. leave flowers and get the fuck out

* * *

Lavellan: if i keep my body moving and my mind occupied at all times, I will avoid falling into a bottomless pit of despair

* * *

Lavellan: im from the future

Ellana: big frogs?

Lavellan: nothing but

* * *

Cole: bricks are domesticated rocks

Bull: stop

Varric: let him speak

* * *

Vivienne: were you dropped on your head as a child?

Sera: bold of u to assume i was held

* * *

Bull: I bet you can't make a sentence without “a”

Dorian: You thought you did something here didn’t you? Well sorry to burst your bubble but numerous sentences could be constructed without employing the first letter of the Common lexicon

Bull: ...Dorion

* * *

Lavellan: can i tell u a secret?

Varric: i don't recommend it, no

* * *

-redcliffe future-

Bull, Solas, Leliana, and Fiona: you're supposed to be dead

Lavellan: u all should know by now that i never do what i'm supposed to

* * *

-post-trespasser-

Lavellan: i do what i want

Scout Harding: i'm telling Seeker Pentaghast

Lavellan: no wait

* * *

-War Council meetings-

Josephine and Cullen: do u recall those times when we tell you something isn't a good idea

Leliana and Lavellan: and then we ignore u? yea

* * *

Lavellan, arriving at the Exalted Council: sorry i'm late

Divine Victoria: what happened?

Lavellan: nothing i just really didn't wanna come

* * *

Lavellan: can you do me a weird favour without asking any questions?

Dorian: isn’t that the bedrock upon which our friendship is founded?

* * *

Solas: if you ever doubt yourself, walk deep into any forest. Notice how the trees still stand even though they are given no recognition. Walk along any stream. The water still flows, though no one stops to praise it. Watch the stars late at night; they shine without acknowledgement. We are just the same. We are made out of the same elements as these beautiful wonders. Always remember your beauty and self worth

Varric: Don’t do this, you’re going to get lost and die

* * *

Lavellan: would u say you're independent?

Bull: *looks at Krem*

Krem: *nods*

Bull: yes

* * *

Cullen: how are you?

Lavellan: uh, moderate to severe

* * *

Bull: I lost Varric!!

Dorian: How in Andraste's good grace did you lose him?

Bull: how could u not? he's what? two inches tall!

* * *

Cassandra: the Inquisitor sleeps after us and is awake before us. does he even sleep?

Varric: i think he periodically has a seizure and then collapses

* * *

-Elvhenan-

Dirthamen: where is solas?

Lavellan: somewhere disappointing the gods

* * *

-post-Trespasser-

Leliana and Cassandra: Fen'Harel's agents can be aggressive so it is important to take precautionary measures before approaching--

Lavellan, setting himself on fire and clanging his daggers together: gET FUCKED

* * *

Dorian: Hm, my criminal record? Only illegal thing I’ve done is having KILLER looks. Ha, just kidding! I’ve also murdered a man.

* * *

Solas: i wonder who is ruining my life

Solas, looking into a mirror: so we meet again

* * *

Cullen: people who sleep without socks on make me worry

Varric: people who sleep WITH socks are not to be trusted

Lavellan: people who sleep are weird

Sera: i was a sock once

* * *

Red Templar: i'm going to kill you!

Cole: let me ask my dads

Red Templar: wha--

Cole: they said no

* * *

Solas: did u get enough sleep

Lavellan:

Lavellan: sometimes my eyes close when i sneeze

* * *

Solas: i am this close to falling in love with you

Lavellan:

Lavellan: ur fingers are touching

* * *

Cole: you're ignoring your problems

Lavellan: i'm aware

Cole: that isn't good

Lavellan: i'm ignoring that too

* * *

Lavellan: i swing both ways

Lavellan: violently. with a bat

Lavellan: come get some, motherfuckers

* * *

Lavellan: can i bother u for a second

Alexius: u always bother me but go ahead

* * *

Bull: so do u have any kinks?

Lavellan: peace and quiet

* * *

Lavellan: name a stronger duo than my fear of failure and instinct to self-immolate

Cassandra: you and me

Lavellan, crying: alright

* * *

Solas: i will not engage you in another foolish argument

Lavellan: fen'harel is a furry

Solas, already going apeshit:

* * *

Lavellan: dareth shiral (tr. safe journey)

Solas: i do not have a say in that

Lavellan: die then

* * *

Solas: i never make the same mistake twice

Lavellan: because u repeat it four or five times just to be sure

* * *

Lavellan: sometimes i dream of being with you

Solas: lies

Solas: you do not sleep

* * *

Josephine: what do you do during your free time?

Cullen and Lavellan: our what?

Leliana: your free time

Cullen and Lavellan: 

Cullen and Lavellan: what's free time?

* * *

Lavellan: gods give me patience

Roderick: did u mean to say strength

Lavellan: no.

Lavellan: if the gods gave me strength, you'd be dead

* * *

Lavellan to the Orlesian nobles: i'm trying to say this as politely as possible

Lavellan: i will fuck you up

* * *

Cole: holding in ur emotions is bad

Lavellan, shoving his trauma into a bag and throwing it into the ocean: tragic

* * *

Everyone about Fen'Harel: he's too powerful! we can't kill him! 

Lavellan: well not with that attitude

* * *

Lavellan: don't joke about murder. i was murdered once and it offends me

Ellana: i promise not to take a stab at you

Lavellan:

* * *

Lavellan: roses are red, violets are blue, the gods gave me all the height, and left none for you

Ellana: i will destroy ur fucking kneecaps

* * *

Corypheus: *breathes*

Lavellan: can u not

* * *

Cullen: is stabbing someone immoral?

Leliana: not if they consent to it

Lavellan: depends who you’re stabbing

Josephine: YES????

* * *

Lavellan, recently spat out from the future: you make me so angry it's remarkable

Solas: i have not said anything

Lavellan: yet here i am, boiling with rage

* * *

Lavellan: when have i ever done anything irresponsible?

Josephine: i have kept a list. arranged in alphabetised and chronological order. which would u like to see?

* * *

Lavellan: im alive but only ironically

* * *

Solas: could u be any more irritating

Sera: yes

* * *

Corypheus: give me the anchor

Lavellan: give me a reason why i shouldn't set u on fire

* * *

Lavellan: do u want to hear a joke abt the Fade?

Solas: no

Lavellan: that's the spirit!

Solas:

* * *

Lavellan: hold the fuck up

Lavellan: i am the fuck up

Lavellan: please hold me

* * *

Solas: i requested a glass of water from Enchanter Vivienne and she handed me a glass of ice and said, 'wait'

* * *

Lavellan: what's it called when u kill a friend

Lavellan, stabbing Solas: homiecide

Solas, stabbing him back: murder

Lavellan, coughing out blood: homiecide

* * *

Josephine: did you just refer to a knife as a 'people-opener'?

Leliana: should i not have?

* * *

Blackwall, Bull, Varric, and Solas: are you calling me a liar?

Lavellan: i ain't calling u a truther

* * *

Bull: has anyone ever told u they loved u

Dorian: does my father count

Bull: sure

Dorian: then no

* * *

Lavellan: when was the last time anything went according to plan

Solas: i do not believe there was a last time

* * *

Lavellan: i slept for almost 12 hours but i might still be tired so let's go for 12 more just in case

Varric: glowy, that's a coma

Lavellan: sounds festive

* * *

Cassandra: i expect nothing and i am still let down

* * *

Cole: treat spiders the way you want to be treated

Hawke: killed without hesitation

* * *

Solas: how are you able to escape the messes you make

Lavellan: i don't. i just make a bigger one that cancels out the first

* * *

Solas: since it is uncertain which part of my life is the middle, i have elected to have an ongoing crisis

* * *

Memory: we have reversed time and saved the inquisitor from dying

Well of Sorrows: fucked up a perfectly good host is what u did

WoS: look at him, he's got trauma

* * *

Cullen, delirious from lyrium-withdrawal: what if i pour lyrium into my cereals

Lavellan, taking away the lyrium kit as he walks past: how about you don't

* * *

Varric: would u slap the Orlesian nobles for 2000 sovereigns?

Lavellan: i'd roundhouse kick them in the face for free

* * *

Solas: strength is forgiving someone even if they are not sorry

Flemythal: not to be dramatic but i'd rather die

* * *

Sera: we're responsible

Lavellan: you burned the barn loft

Blackwall: but we take responsibility for it

* * *

Leliana: i have an idea

Josephine: no murder

Leliana: i am out of ideas

* * *

Lavellan: admit it, you've fallen for me

Solas: you tripped me

* * *

Varric, doing a crossword: everyone shut up, i need a 7-letter word for disappointment

Lavellan: mahanon

Inner circle:

Varric: it fits

* * *

Solas: must u always attack me with words

Lavellan: u want me to use rocks?

* * *

Corypheus: u have a lot of nerve stealing the anchor

Lavellan: u have a lot of nerve being alive

* * *

Dorian: what's the fastest way to a man's heart?

Lavellan: through the fourth and fifth ribs

Solas:

* * *

Varric, writing: is there a word that's between sad and mad?

Solas: malcontented, disgruntled, miserable, desolated...

Sera: smad

* * *

Cassandra: i hope you are not about to do something foolish

Lavellan: i hope ur not hoping too hard

* * *

Lavellan: what will u bring to the masquerade?

Briala: my negative attitude and sparkling personality

* * *

Cole: Iron Bull, what does BDSM mean

Bull: being dead sounds magnificent

* * *

Lavellan: can u tuck me in

Ellana: u handed me a shovel??

Lavellan: yeah just spread the dirt as evenly as u can thanks

* * *

Lavellan: see the problem is that u have to be nicer

Revasha: see the problem is that i don't give a fuck

* * *

Cullen: you need a hobby

Leliana: i have one

Josephine: murder is not a hobby

* * *

Solas: in your opinion, what is the height of stupidity?

Lavellan: ...how tall are you again?

* * *

Cassandra, hoping for a normal day: good morning

Lavellan, shaking his prosthetic at the sky: i'm going to try and fight a god

* * *

Solas: i am merely waiting for three words

Lavellan: i love you

Solas: try again

Lavellan:

Lavellan: i will behave

Solas: very good

* * *

Solas: so i left my vhenan after revealing i was Fen'Harel

Solas: and i then pursued my world-destroying plan and became corrupted by red lyrium

Thedas: wHY

Solas: he was 95% of my impulse control

* * *

Dorian: it would be nice to wake up with you for the rest of our lives

Bull: i wake up at 5. morning chill rly gets the blood pumping

Dorian:

Dorian: never mind

* * *

Lavellan: i'd die a thousand deaths for you

Inner circle: isn't that what u want tho

Lavellan:

Lavellan: i'd live a thousand lives for you

* * *

Lavellan: what could go wrong?

Well of Sorrows: absolutely everything

* * *

Lavellan: and then Josephine kicked me out of the Exalted Council and told me to calm down because i was being 'unreasonable' and 'losing my temper' and 'Inquisitor'

Lavellan: the last one was just my title but u should've heard the way she said it

* * *

Lavellan after Bull's betrayal: i'm going to strangle you

Iron Bull: are u sure u can reach my neck

Lavellan: you've sunk low enough for me to reach

* * *

Corypheus: i will send u to your death, rattus

Lavellan: already been. didn't agree with me

* * *

Lavellan: if u wake up early, there are many more hours in a day

Dorian: but at what cost

* * *

Lavellan: being Inquisitor looks like the worst job in the world. rip to whoever gets it

* * *

Cook: what would u like for breakfast, inquisitor?

Well of Sorrows: the dying gasps of those who have wronged you

Lavellan: a bagel

WoS: no!

Lavellan: two bagels

* * *

-Haven-

Cullen, waking up to find Lavellan already awake: oh when did you wake up

Lavellan, absolutely batshit from sleep-deprivation and psychological trauma: Time is a construct, inherently tying us to death. Undo every shackle, unseat every oppressor, and time will be there still, inexorably laughing at us until the bitter end

Lavellan: I woke up at 4:30

* * *

Lavellan: remember when i said you're too friendly

Josephine, making a cup of tea: i'm not!

Fen'Harel agent who tried to kill them five minutes ago: two sugars please!

Josephine: coming right up!

Lavellan:

* * *

Dorian, trying to make Solas jealous: do you like Mahanon

Solas: do not be ridiculous. he is a close friend

Dorian: so you wouldn't mind if i courted --

Solas: i will personally ensure you never get a restful sleep ever again

* * *

Cullen: what's better than a dog

Lavellan: two dogs

Cullen, tearing up: you are absolutely right--

* * *

Lavellan: There's three ways to do things: the right way, the wrong way, and the Solas way

Solas, already regretting asking: and what is the solas way?

Lavellan: the wrong way but faster

* * *

Cole: what makes u happy?

Solas, frantically hiding the journal filled with sketches of lavellan: that is an intriguing question, cole

* * *

Inner circle: Inquisitor no!

Lavellan yeeting himself into an avalanche: Inquisitor yes

* * *

Lavellan: fenny, do u want the ~~ball~~ orb?

Lavellan: gO feTcH *hurls the orb at Solas*

* * *

Sera: made solas a get better soon card

Blackwall: oh that's surprisingly nice of u

Sera: priss wasn't sick. just thought he should do better

* * *

Divine Justinia: i watched this dalish elf catch the elven orb i threw at him and all he said as his hand turned green was--

Lavellan: i am so sick of being alive

* * *

Varric any time he's exposed to the great outdoors: i am very small and have no money so u can imagine the kind of stress i am under

* * *

Solas: i created the veil and it killed those dearest to me

Lavellan: oh yeah? well i cut out the middleman and killed those dearest to me my damn self

* * *

Dorian: hello my dearest friend, did you drink the last bottle from my vintage Nevarran collection as it seems to have disappeared and i was so looking forward to it

Lavellan, already shitfaced and facedown on the floor: maybe

Dorian: fucker

* * *

-Exalted Council-

Lavellan, holding up the Inquisition writ: this is what i think abt ur opinion

Lavellan: *throws it at the council* 

* * *

Thedas: what's ur secret weapon for taking down the Dread Wolf

Lavellan: love and compassion

Thedas: what really

Lavellan: lmao no, im punting him into the Void

* * *

Lavellan: i am filled with feral, unchecked rage and i can and will bite ur face at any given point in time

* * *

Lavellan: is something burning

Solas: just my desire for you

Lavellan:

Lavellan: your coattails are on fire

* * *

Lavellan, seeing someone causing a scene in the middle of Val Royeaux: what idiots

Lavellan: *sees that it's the inner circle*

Lavellan: shit those are my idiots

* * *

Lavellan, severely traumatised while standing over Cassandra's corpse: friends are like balloons. if u stab them they die

* * *

Vergala: *does anything*

Lavellan, already losing his goddamn mind: fuckING supERb you funky little ball of feathers

* * *

Lavellan, fucking up his alchemical flasks: i'm well aware that i've accidentally set myself on fire and it's none of your business. i don't need ur pity water either. let me burn in peace

* * *

Lavellan: love is dead and never existed. All you did was betray me as I lay sick and festering. You are the definition of dread

Solas, sweating: is everything alright?

Lavellan: Vergala stole my cinnamon scroll

* * *

Lavellan: vibe check

Lavellan: *takes off his prosthetic and **backhands** Solas with it*

* * *

-during Halamshiral-

Lavellan: don't worry, i've got a few knives up my sleeves

Cullen: did u mean tricks

Leliana: he did not

Lavellan, pulling out knives: i did not

* * *

Solas: *watching the stars*

Lavellan: what are u doing

Solas: naming the stars after people i love

Lavellan: do i get a star

Solas: you get the sun

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the last one's just me being a sap)
> 
> if u laughed, nice
> 
> if u didn't laugh, nice
> 
> if u melted into an amorphous blob of existence that's neither human nor god, nice


	7. [Skyhold] The Inquisitor and the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Should be caught up to Chapter 30]
> 
> The inhabitants of Skyhold have closely subscribed to their Inquisitor’s love life. Betting pools have started, Dorian is close to pulling all his hair out, and the gossip mill is very much alive. 
> 
> Fen’Harel’s agents, on the other hand, are hoping against hope.

This was atrocious. What kind of self-respecting, military-political organisation were they running if all they had in their library were twenty volumes about Unimportant Figure Number One doing Nobody Cares during a Year That Inspired Crippling Boredom? 

Dorian closed the book about Unimportant Figure Number Two and dropped it. Treat all books with respect, as they said. Dorian only extended the rule to worthy books.

He amended that one should treat books how one should treat people:

Drop the insipid ones. 

He rubbed his eyes. It was late, so much so that not even the ravens in the rookery were fussing, and all he wanted was a lovely story to help him sleep. And by that, he meant a soothing book with Pretty Words, not a book drier than his mother’s personality. At this point, the Inquisitor may just sleep earlier than him since his sleeping pattern seemed to be settling. Thanks mostly to Solas’ efforts. And the Iron Bull. And Varric. And Dorian. And Sera. And Cass―

It took a lot of bullying a stubborn elf into it, was what he was saying.

Dorian fiddled with the wooden carving Lavellan had given him a few days ago and smiled. Well, the bullying came from a place of worry. At least Lavellan was listening. Somewhat. Still, Dorian didn't know what to do with the present. He didn’t want to accidentally lose it, but he also wished to keep it on his person. He'd tried what Bull had and tied it to his belt, but Dorian so despised belts and would rather not wear them at Skyhold.

Ah well, he’d figure something out. 

Shuffling noises beneath him. Dorian caught a glimpse of Solas moving about the rotunda. Up late. Must have been painting. 

Dorian was about to call out and bother him because boredom was oh so terrible and getting a rise out of Solas was always fun. Alas, he never got the chance. The door to the rotunda opened and the howl of Skyhold’s nightly winds swept into the space, before Inquisitor Lavellan stepped in and closed the door. 

“Good evening,” greeted Solas and Dorian made himself comfortable. There would be no boredom for him tonight, it seemed.

Now, where was the― Aha!

Dorian dug into the pile of pillows he'd shoved in a corner and took out the bottle of Nevarran Red, pouring himself a glass. 

“You must be the only person left here,” said Lavellan. 

“I believe so.”

Dorian took a sip and didn’t correct them.

“Were you painting?” asked Lavellan. “That’s the only time you stay up late.”

“Am I becoming predictable?”

“You’re predictable most days. Second only to Cassandra.”

“Oh? I had not realised you paid such close attention to my daily activities.”

“There is a worrying lack of socialising in there, Solas.”

“That does not address my earlier statement.”

“Neither does that.”

Silence. Dorian sat up straighter in his seat, trying to glimpse them through the spaces of the railings. Lavellan was seated on the desk (could that man _please_ just sit on a proper chair?), but he couldn’t see Solas.

“I hear Varric and Bull constantly invite you to spend time with them,” said Lavellan. “I also hear you constantly decline.”

“I may consider it if they suggest a place other than the tavern. It seems all they wish to do is gamble and drink.”

“That’s just their excuse. All they’re after is conversation in a fun, low-stakes environment. Varric plays Wicked Grace to make players talk, and alcohol makes people loose so they’re more likely to engage in conversation.”

Another silence.

“You said you’ll try when I gave you the wolves,” Lavellan said, so soft that Dorian almost missed it. He leaned forward in his seat. “I feel as if I just made you retreat more.”

“I spend time with you.”

“I’m not enough.”

Solas made an offended sound. “What nonsense. You are more than enough.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Was this the sort of conversations they got up to late at night? Dorian should pretend to not be here more often.

“Spend time with others. Not just me.”

“I hear the quality of friends matter more than the quantity.”

“But he’s not just a friend, is he?” Dorian wished to scream. He bit his inner cheek and forced himself to drink.

“You promised,” said Lavellan.

“I said I will think on it.”

“Thought has to become action, at one point.”

“You are very persistent.”

“I’ve been told.” Lavellan shrugged. “I know you and Bull are friends.”

“Are we?” Solas asked dryly. “He is loud and brash.”

Dorian almost snorted. That he was. And crude and full of terrible jokes and surprisingly considerate―

“So? You still enjoy talking to him ― outside of taverns. Don’t deny. You’re a real softie for people like Bull.”

“You always make such sweeping claims about me.”

“Am I wrong?”

More extended silence. Footsteps. Dorian took a sip, craned his neck further to see what was going on. Solas had walked into view and was now standing in front of Lavellan. They stared at each other.

Merciful Andraste, the _staring_. 

“You should never claim to know a person,” said Solas finally. 

“I wasn’t claiming to know you; I was making an observation. I don’t know many things about you, and you don’t know many things about me.”

“What if I asked to get to know you better?”

Dorian leaned further forward, risked being seen by Solas, but that was such a minimal risk. Everyone knew that once Lavellan was in the room, Solas couldn’t give a flying bother about anything else. Well, everyone knew except Lavellan. How was he so observant yet so irritatingly _dense_?

“I’d say yes,” answered Lavellan.

“But would you be truthful?”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“I am calling you evasive. Thank you for proving me correct.”

Lavellan laughed. Even from here, Dorian saw how Solas’ face softened at the sound. He almost smashed the goblet down. Oh for fuck’s sake!

He drank more wine and avoided burbling into it in pain.

“Okay,” said Lavellan. “Come on. Out of everyone in the inner circle, who would you say you get along with the most?”

“You.”

“Right, now that’s just a plain lie. We argue often. Try again.”

Solas chuckled. “The absence of conflict does not necessarily indicate a closer relationship.”

“Humour me.”

“Why are you so adamant?”

“I told you. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“What if I prefer to be alone?” asked Solas.

“Do you?” Lavellan asked, soft. Bless this reverberant rotunda and its ability to carry sound so well. “Truthfully, do you prefer to be alone?”

“I enjoy solitude.”

“Okay, let me reiterate,” said Lavellan. “I don’t want you to be lonely.”

“You are here. I am not lonely now.”

Dorian almost choked on his wine. What else was that supposed to be if not, “I love you”?

Lavellan was quiet for a breath. Lavellan _better_ be going crazy in his head. If a man said all these things to Dorian with that tone of voice, he would be swooning on sight. He was terribly sick of these two. Ever since _Redcliffe_. 

“Well,” said Lavellan. “I’m― I’m glad. That that’s the case. So, is there anyone else in the inner circle whose presence makes you less lonely?”

Solas sighed. “You are not giving up on this campaign, are you?”

“Nope.”

Dorian ran out of wine.

“Why?” asked Solas.

“Because...” He paused. Fell quiet.

Dorian pulled at his hair, desperately swallowed back his frustrated noises.

“Because,” Lavellan tried again, “you deserve better than walking alone.”

That was _it._ Dorian slammed the goblet down on the side table and screamed.

* * *

“You know, Dorian, most people don’t talk about their boss’ love life after sex.”

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t rather have this conversation?” he asked, batting his lashes, and Bull grumbled. Pretty bastard knew he was pretty. “And he isn’t just our boss. He is my best friend, and Solas is yours. We are legally obligated to share our findings.”

Bull laughed. “Solas isn’t my best friend. If anything, Mercy’s the closest he’s got to a best friend.”

Dorian waved him off, but the action was lethargic, exhausted. Bull resisted grinning. 

“Mahanon doesn’t count! He’s the object of affection so _obviously_ Solas wouldn’t act the same. And you are his closest friend.”

“Cole,” Bull suggested.

“Cole is a special case.”

Fair enough. “Cassandra.”

“More of a business relationship. You and Solas have gotten a bit closer after… er…”

“After I betrayed the Qun,” he said breezily, ignoring the small twist in his chest. One day, the twist would be fainter. “But fine. Tell me what you got.”

“Right. Well.” Dorian shuffled up higher and leaned against the headboard, wrapped the blanket tighter around him. His hair had been dishevelled. Would it be weird if Bull reached up to fix it? It'd be weird, wouldn’t it? “He invites Solas an awful lot to his quarters late at night. What if―”

“Nope.”

“What? You seem so sure.”

He shrugged. “I just know. Besides, Solas isn’t that kind of guy, I don’t think. Not when he cares this much, at least.” His hand reached out and gently fixed Dorian’s hair. Dorian started, but Bull was already drawing his hand back. Dorian didn’t comment. “And Mercy… Honestly, I don’t know if Mercy’s the type.”

“He looks so sad, sometimes,” Dorian murmured.

“Who?”

He hesitated. “Both, now that I think about it. I don’t understand. Why? Do they not think the other will reciprocate?”

“Mercy goes after what he wants. If he’s not moving, there’s probably a reason.”

Dorian fell quiet. Bull stared at his profile. He had one of those faces you could print on a coin.

“You know something?” asked Bull.

“Not… quite. I’m not certain.” He sighed. “Mahanon thinks Solas is a terrible idea. He said as much when I asked him about it.”

“I heard from Varric he almost stabbed Solas when they first met.”

“Well I didn’t know _that_.”

Bull hummed. “But why would Solas be a terrible idea? I think Solas is good for him, actually. They’re good for each other.” He paused. “They do argue a lot though, but honestly, at this point, it’s starting to feel like it’s foreplay for them.”

Dorian sputtered. “It is _not_! They are legitimately grieved.”

“Yeah, Dorian, it’s called _arguing_ for a reason. Come on, don’t tell me you don’t feel like they’re going to either bite someone’s head off or tear each other’s clothes off when they get like that.”

His face scrunched. “I will have to stop you right there.”

He laughed and slung his arm around Dorian. “ _That’s_ where your line is?”

Dorian didn’t move away. “It's a rather sensible line. Handsome line too.” He dropped his teasing tone, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. “It’s like… he’s afraid.”

“Solas or Mercy?”

“Both.”

Afraid, huh? Bull absentmindedly rubbed small circles into Dorian’s shoulders as he thought. Mercy _was_ afraid. Bull recalled that Fear demon’s comments in the Fade. The piece of shit had said a lot of things that made no sense, but it had hit Mercy in places. It hurt, a little, seeing Mercy try so hard to keep himself together and continue even as he descended into a panic. Bull had never wanted to kill something more than he had at that time.

Whatever Mercy was carrying, it was heavy. 

And Solas? Bull didn’t know what to make of him. He was _exactly_ who he said he was, but there was something off, something that never added up right. It was there, Bull knew it was. But it’s like knowing there was a fish in the pond. Yeah, no shit there was a fish, but where was the little fucker?

Both were skittish because of _something_.

“They’re both hiding something,” said Bull. “And I think it’s that something that’s making them hold back.”

“Everyone has something to hide,” said Dorian, frowning.

“I don’t know about you, but I get the feeling that whatever it is, it’s big.” 

Solas and Mercy both had eyes that looked older than their body.

The thought brought him up short. Dorian must have sensed him tensing because he glanced at Bull with a silent question. 

Bull shook his head and smiled. “Hey, c’mon, let’s sleep. I got an early morning tomorrow. Got to show Krem this new move with the sword.”

Dorian grunted in assent and shuffled back into the blankets. Bull’s lips twitched. A month ago, Dorian wouldn’t have been caught dead staying for long, but Bull didn’t mind this development. It was nice waking up next to somebody in the cold mornings.

* * *

“Three months.”

“Are you kidding? Five.”

Varric shooed them. “Hey, hey, what did I say about arguing about time over the table?” He waved the basket, the coins within it clinking. “Money here. Argue there.”

The scullery maid threw her hands up and dumped five silvers into the basket. She turned to her companion and put her hands on her hips. “Fine, four months. Fine compromise?”

“Deal.”

“Long as you agree on a duration, ladies,” said Varric. “You got that down Sparkler?”

Dorian scribbled into the paper. “Hmhm!” he chirped. “Four months from now!”

“Next!” called Varric.

“What are you doing?”

Varric looked up at Cassandra and grinned. “Seeker! Nice of you to join us!”

“Are you running a betting pool?” she asked, already scowling. “We cannot―”

“On when Chuckles and Glowy will get together.”

She trailed off. Varric shook the basket at her invitingly.

“Come on Seeker,” he cajoled. “Want to take a guess? You win five silvers.”

“I do not need five silvers.”

“But you get to be _right_.”

Dorian waggled his brows, already pulling out a slip of paper. “Let’s hear it. Take a guess.”

“This is hardly proper,” she protested. “To be talking about the Inquisitor and Solas like this behind their backs…”

“We won’t tell if you won’t,” said Varric, grinning.

Cassandra pursed her lips, shuffled her feet.

She threw five silvers in and the line cheered. 

“Six months,” she guessed. Dorian diligently wrote that down. 

“Six months on the month of… Solace.” He threw his head back and laughed. “It’s nice to see everyone has a terrible sense of humour.”

“That was not my reason,” she sighed.

“Mind sharing?” teased Varric.

“No,” she said and walked away. Varric shrugged, leaned back, still grinning. 

“I see this as an absolute win.”

* * *

“Do you think Fen’Harel would kill me if I _accidentally_ lock them in the pantry?”

“Yes.”

Aerin groaned and sulked. Idahlan pointed the pitchfork in her hand at him.

“You know better than to just blurt these things out.”

“It’s not like anyone’s awake at this ass-end hour of the morning to hear.” He yawned, breaths fogging in the cold, and leaned on his pitchfork. “Sun’s not even up yet.”

“Hop to it. Hay won’t pitch itself.”

Aerin complained but he at least set to work. 

“It’s just,” he continued and Idahlan sighed, “he likes Inquisitor Lavellan. And I think the Inquisitor likes him back. Maybe.” He frowned. “Or maybe he’s just nice to everyone.”

“I heard he had a thing with that Tevinter guy. With the hair and moustache.”

“Nah, those were just rumours. The Tevinter’s with the merc. Big Qunari.” 

She frowned, stabbing into the hay and offloading the mass onto the cart. “We shouldn’t be talking about this.” It felt… bad, somehow. 

“Everyone gossips about their boss.” He looked up and shrugged. “Bosses, in our case. We have two. I know most people hate their bosses but you know what? I actually like them.”

“Three, if you count Master Dennett.”

“He’s fine too.” He threw the hay over his shoulder haphazardly yet it still landed in the cart, miraculously. She considered berating him but it was far too early to waste energy on that. “I mean, Inquisitor Lavellan’s Dalish, right? He’s like the stories we heard as young kids, you know? The noble Dalish. They live in and off the forest, and they’re benevolent and kind and talk to animals or something. I never believed the animal bit. But I always thought they were these heroes who’ll come save us when things start getting tough.”

“You know that’s not true,” she said.

“No,” he agreed, “but you can’t take away the hope right?”

“No, I guess not.” The Dalish were not mythical and legendary. There were no flying aravels, no magical connection to the animals, no gleaming steeds and unbreakable swords. They were just like the city elves, except free from the humans’ bullshit. Most times.

“He cares about us,” Aerin murmured.

Idahlan stopped. She straightened and stabbed her fork into the hay. “Anyone can pretend to be kind. People in power use that as another tactic to get what they want. They’re nice to your face now, but when you turn around, they screw you over. That’s how it’s always been.”

“You really don’t think the Inquisitor is like that, do you?” He looked away. “He knows my name. He remembered my cat’s name, even remembered she wasn’t feeling well. Asked about her the other day.”

Idahlan picked up her fork again. “We can’t get attached. You know why we’re here. You know what we’ll do after.”

Aerin returned to pitching but now in solemn quiet. Idahlan pursed her lips and returned to her task. They couldn’t rely on those in power. They had to make change themselves, take matters into their own hands. She was wary of Fen’Harel too, but they did what they had to so they could survive. Aerin didn’t understand that. Too trusting. No matter how kind they appeared. No matter how…

_“That’s what happens when a rabbit gets a throne. The other rabbits come out of hiding and infest the place,” sniffed the Orlesian dignitary._

_Idahlan stiffened but ignored them steadfastly, focusing on her task, wiping the panes of the balcony doors. They would leave soon._

_“Be careful,” said his companion. “We want this alliance to go smoothly.”_

_“Yes, yes.” He waved his hand. “Although I suspect I’ll do most of the talking to Ambassador Montilyet. I doubt the_ Inquisitor _even knows how to read.” He chuckled._

_“Did you see the Dalish flag at the front?”_

_“I didn’t even know the Dalish had a flag. How trite.”_

_Idahlan bristled and bit her tongue._

_“Andraste’s grace, but this mountain is cold,” muttered the dignitary. “I cannot believe they’re making us wait like this. I will have a few words with Ambassador Montilyet.”_

_“Just ask for a blanket. You there!” called the other one to Idahlan. “Knife-ear, fetch us some blankets.”_

_Knife-ear. She hadn’t heard that term in a while, and if any of her human friends slipped and jokingly called her that, she’d call them out and they would apologise and that would be that. She wasn’t thinking when she turned and said, “Get it yourself.”_

_She immediately froze._

_The dignitaries stared. Then the one who made the request seethed._

_“How dare you! Do you know whom you speak to?” He stormed towards her and her legs couldn't move, his figure suddenly overlaying with all of her previous masters and mistresses, and her body tensed in preparation for the reprimanding strike. She couldn't_ move. _“I will teach you manners―”_

_“Comte Fuillon,” said a commanding voice._

_Comte Fuillon turned towards the speaker. Inquisitor Lavellan made his way towards them with Ambassador Montilyet beside him, his gaze as frigid as the air of the Frostbacks. Idahlan wrapped her arms around herself. Comte Fuillon bowed. They were gathering a few looks._

_“Ambassador Montilyet,_ Inquisitor _Lavellan,” he said, tone simpering, but she knew there was a sneer behind his mask. He raised his head but only addressed Ambassador Montilyet. “Your servant has been most impudent. I merely asked for a blanket as my companion is cold. I demand an apology.”_

_Inquisitor Lavellan glanced at Idahlan, who wrung the rag in her hands. Here it came. She would be forced to prostate on the floor to save his face._

_But Inquisitor Lavellan only said, "No."_

_Comte Fuillon sputtered. Idahlan stared at him, wide-eyed._

_“Ambassador Montilyet, I will not suffer such an affront!”_

_Ambassador Montilyet stared at Comte Fuillon with a genial smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I believe you are conversing with the Inquisitor, not I.”_

_“You are here in Skyhold,” said Lavellan, golden eyes sharp, “as our guests. You have been offered hospitality, you have been welcomed at the gates, you have been accepted into the Hall. We understand it is cold, and it could have been a simple matter of requesting a blanket―”_

_“That is what I―”_

_“Do not,” he cut off, voice hard and eyes dark, “interrupt me."_

It was a simple matter of humiliating the Comte in front of an audience ― or, well, Inquisitor Lavellan had made it look simple ― and after the dignitaries fled, his disposition had immediately warmed when he'd asked if she was alright, denying her attempts to apologise. 

_“You have nothing to apologise for. I’m glad you’re alright.”_

Idahlan smiled at the memory, then caught herself and wiped the smile off her face. She stopped again. Aerin stared at her.

“Ida?”

“Suppose,” she said, “that maybe… Maybe if Inquisitor Lavellan knew about―” Her grip tightened on the fork. “He might want to help. Us. And Fen’Harel.”

Aerin’s eyes widened. “You think?”

“He might. If Fen’Harel asks, he might.”

Aerin brightened. “He cares about us. I think he will.”

“He’s still Dalish. They’re still wary of the Dread Wolf. Superstition and all.”

“But… Surely…” Aerin shuffled. “Can you imagine? How strong they’d be together?”

She could. The man who commanded armies and played nobles for fools with a god who could reshape reality and walk the land of dreams? But― “What if he says no? If he opposes us?”

Aerin said nothing. 

“I want him to stand with us,” Idahlan admitted. “But ultimately, that’s not our choice.”

“If we just lock them in a pantry together―”

“Just keep pitching,” she sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written in a while (not counting the edits/proofreading i do for updates) because mental health went brrrrr again which makes me Big Sad. So I'm just trying to ease myself back into the swing of things.
> 
> Yes, all of these scenarios are me expanding on the things I wrote in replies to a few comments haha.


	8. [Lavellan] Prima Luce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Doesn't matter where you're caught up to]
> 
> **_Prima luce_ ** _n._  
>  _at dawn (lit. at first light)_
> 
> The dawn shines in their final moments. It’s suitable, Lavellan thinks, for them to fall at the beginning of a new day, as if their actions paved the way for the future. The dawn will come, so the Chantry hymn goes. Too bad the sky is heavy with smoke and magic.
> 
> No matter. This is his final duty. It is time for him to rest.
> 
> ~~Ara ma’athlan vhenas.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Strike three for obnoxious latin chapter title haha

He had failed.

Lavellan cast his gaze skywards, shoulders slumped in both exhaustion and resignation as he panted. The air trembled, gave a heaving shudder. A primordial force surged in him before retreating, behaving like a vicious wave, the snap of a whip. The Well of Sorrows’ panicked whispers overlapped.

“We were wrong,” he whispered, helpless eyes trained on the skies choked by smoke, the embers and glow from the city on fire being the closest thing they had to stars.

They thought they could stop Solas, but what fools they all were. They weren’t stopping his ritual.

The ritual had already begun months ago.

The Veil was already falling.

And now? Now they only had a scant few hours left.

Cassandra fell to one knee in exhaustion, leaning on her sword. Her head bowed.

The corpses surrounding them suddenly meant nothing.

Dorian was dead. They had lost Varric in the chaos after he insisted on leading a group of orphans out. Sera had gone missing. Cullen had fallen to grievous injuries.

All their efforts had meant nothing.

Their losses had meant _nothing_.

He recalled Dorian’s dying smile, staying even as the light faded from his eyes. Recalled Varric’s final hug that Lavellan wished he had returned. Recalled the hollowness in Dagna’s eyes as she presented the blighted blade, the crafting of it having taken its toll. Recalled Vivienne’s final words of strength as she retreated into her dreams and took the fight to the demons. Recalled Sera tying her trademark brown kerchief around his neck before he lost track of her amidst the fighting. Lavellan touched the kerchief, a lump in his throat.

In the distance was Solas’ retreating form, heading steadfast towards the valley past the city. There must be an eluvian there, leading to Arlathan Forest.

Lavellan gritted his teeth.

Whatever he wanted in Arlathan Forest, they wouldn’t let him have it.

Cullen’s words from so long ago echoed within his memory. Back at Haven when Corypheus had attacked, when there was seemingly no escape, Cullen had said their only choice left was how spitefully they wanted to end the fight.

“Stand,” he said to Cassandra and he squared his shoulders, ignored the ache of any injuries, and tightened his grip on his daggers.

Cassandra braced herself against her sword as she pushed herself up, her expression set in determination. No questions asked. He gave her a grim smile.

“Let’s end this,” he said.

“I am with you.”

“I am headed towards death.”

Her gaze softened. “I know.”

Lavellan held her gaze for a beat before he allowed himself a disbelieving breath. What a formidable woman.

They chased after Solas. A few of Solas’ soldiers attempted to impede their progress but they fell to his blades and Cassandra’s sword.

Lavellan had nothing left besides this one goal. He wasn’t certain what kind of chaos the fall of the Veil would bring, but whatever it was, whatever the world would become after, he would make sure it would be free of Solas’ influence. The world would rise again. Let it rise on its own, untethered to fallen gods or exalted saviours.

Leliana joined them halfway through, clad in her old armour. She was not Divine Victoria for this fight, rather, just another soul willing to make a sacrifice.

“You cannot attack him head-on by yourselves,” said Leliana.

He glanced at her. “No,” he agreed. “I suppose you’re the cavalry then?”

Leliana smiled. “He will have to go through the Hundred Pillars’ pass. Fortunately, the mouth to the pass has a few hillsides someone can hide in.”

“A little nightingale fluttering about,” he said and smiled back.

With the plan in mind, she separated and headed for the hills.

The Veil surged once more and that primordial force returned, clawing from within him. Lavellan cried out at the stabbing pain that pulsed at the back of his head. He staggered. Cassandra supported and righted him while he clutched at his head.

His vision whited for a second before settling, taking the pain with it.

“Is everything alright?” asked Cassandra. “Injuries?”

“I think it’s from the Veil falling,” he said, slightly breathless. “It’s gone now.”

He could feel something within him. A hidden potency. A reawakening connection to the Fade, maybe? He shook his head.

“Come on, we need to cut him off.”

They found an abandoned horse and mounted it, raced towards Solas, and finally reached him by the mouth of the pass. They alighted and Lavellan brandished the blighted blade, the red glow of it unerring.

“Hello, lover,” greeted Lavellan.

Solas stopped. And turned.

He looked as much of a god as Lavellan did a hero. For someone who was winning, he looked very defeated.

“I come bearing gifts,” said Lavellan, tightening his grip on the blighted blade. “I promise to aim for the heart.”

“Will you slip past the ribs?” Solas asked, sounding as dark and defeated as he looked.

“I will break through them.”

“You cannot stand against me.”

Lavellan readied himself and Cassandra shifted into a battle stance beside him. Solas couldn’t turn him to stone since holding the Well of Sorrows rendered him immune. But Cassandra was not exempt.

The Veil pulsed again.

Lavellan could _feel_ the magic in the air, felt how it gathered and pulled around Solas, how it bent away from the blighted blade which held a strange and unknown force of its own. The counterpoint to the Fade’s melody.

“You’re right,” said Lavellan. “But I don’t plan to just stand.”

Lavellan rushed at him. Solas unsheathed a sword and blocked his strike. Always managed to block or parry Lavellan’s following flurry of attacks.

“Do not make me raise my hand against both of you,” said Solas, grimacing as he narrowly avoided the blighted blade. Lavellan leapt back from Solas’ retaliating slash.

Cassandra charged at Solas with her shield.

Solas held out a hand and the air shimmered. Cassandra’s shield hit an invisible wall. She gritted her teeth and pushed while Lavellan renewed his attacks and forced Solas’ attention to divide between him and Cassandra.

They would take advantage of Solas’ hesitation. It was their only shot.

Lavellan glanced at the hillside but Leliana hadn’t arrived yet.

The magic around Solas tightened, connected with Cassandra. Turned rigid, about to become stone—

_No!_

Lavellan grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into Solas’ eyes to disrupt his concentration. Solas flinched, hand to his eyes. Lavellan followed through with a slash from the blighted blade—

Blocked by a barrier.

They had to end this before Solas decides to stop holding back.

Solas raised his hand and Lavellan felt the magic at work again, amassing energy, the air around them vibrating. The primordial force in Lavellan surged once more. Unthinking, he reached for the magic gathering around Solas’ hand, the primordial force and the magic resonating, before Lavellan pulled.

A spark.

Solas’ eyes widened before whatever spell he had been readying backfired and knocked them both down to the ground.

Cassandra gawked at Lavellan.

“How did you—?”

Lavellan groaned and pushed himself up to his elbows, arms trembling as he gestured pointedly at Solas.

Solas was almost halfway to standing before Cassandra bore down on him, sword flashing. He waved his arm, the magic around him building—

Lavellan reached for the magic again and tore it down with a roar. Some of his strength left him. Interrupting spellcasting had a heavy price, it seemed.

Solas’ barrier failed and Cassandra’s sword slashed across his torso.

Even gods bled.

There was a split second of silent surprise. Solas stared at the blood that had spattered on the ground.

Lavellan forced himself to stand and returned to his attacks. Something like hope swelled in him. They were the ones to draw first blood. Against a _god_.

They could do this.

He and Cassandra worked in effortless tandem, their attacks complementing, covering for one another. They pushed Solas back. In a literal and figurative sense. Gave him no time to heal himself.

It helped that Solas was too focused on avoiding the blighted blade.

Any time Solas attempted to use magic, Lavellan interrupted it, the process growing easier as the Veil steadily deteriorated. How ironic. Solas’ own victory would be his downfall. Solas gritted his teeth and looked upon Lavellan with a dawning understanding.

“You—” started Solas but Lavellan interrupted him with another slash of the blighted blade. He had no wish to hear Solas talk.

Slowly, Solas’ expression contorted into frustration.

“Vhenan—” he tried again.

Lavellan snarled. “You have no heart.”

Their blades clashed. A flicker of something in Solas’ eyes, flitting.

There were no spaces left for hearts or loving. Not on this accursed battlefield.

Lavellan’s comment and the blow of it distracted Solas enough that Cassandra managed to bash her shield against him. Solas staggered back, accidentally dropping his sword. An opening. Lavellan and Cassandra both took it, their blades raised high.

Lavellan tasted victory on his tongue.

Solas’ head lifted.

Their eyes met.

Lavellan should have learned by now that the taste of victory was false.

Time slowed. Solas’ eyes glowed blue.

And everything within Lavellan seized, the Well of Sorrows shrieking in his head. The magic pressing at him — _within_ him — was too strong to overcome or tamper with.

His body stopped moving for a splinter of a second.

Cassandra’s sword neared Solas’ neck.

Lavellan’s arm jerked. The hand holding the blighted blade pointed it away from Solas, his body pivoting on his heel so he faced Cassandra.

His stomach dropped.

No, _no—!_

He had enough time to register the flash of horror in her eyes, the glow of the blighted blade reflected within them.

Her momentum carried her forward.

Lavellan buried the blighted blade into her stomach.

Her mouth fell open, body lurching back from the force of his stab. Lavellan let out a choked sound. Cassandra’s pained and visceral cry tore at him and _gods, oh gods, the blade would burn her inside out— Take it out, take it out!_

He couldn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, tears pooling in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Cassandra—”

The Well of Sorrows screamed and this was too much, everything was—

Cassandra dropped her sword and shield, veins of black spreading up her neck. _Take it out, take it out!_

“Mahanon,” she gasped out. Her hand trembled as she rested it on his hand holding the blighted blade. Her breathing turned ragged. Blood trickled out her nose. She mustered a final, fortifying breath, body rattling from the effort.

And she smiled.

“It has been an honour,” she said, words rasping and halting and this simple action must have caused such unimaginable pain. Yet she still pushed through. “Thank you.”

_Why? Why would you thank me?_

Lavellan’s gaze fell on the hillside.

Leliana’s arrow stared him down.

_Do it._

Nothing moved. Nobody moved. As if the battlefield itself had been frozen in the light of this perversive act.

Why wasn’t she fucking _shooting_?

Cassandra slumped, the life in her eyes draining.

A shudder went through him. And suddenly, his body was his once again. Lavellan yanked the dagger out and threw it aside, dropped everything so he could support Cassandra’s body, and gently laid her down. The veins had spread over her face and the blood dripping from her nose had turned thick and black. He closed her eyes.

A tear slipped over his cheek.

The Well’s shrieking had subsided and all he had left was a strange numbness.

Lavellan glanced at Solas whose head was buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he curled in on himself. He ignored Solas and picked up Cassandra’s sword, placed it over her torso, blade pointed at her feet, and arranged her hands so they clasped the hilt — the position knights and warriors were arranged in before cremation.

But he didn’t return the shield.

He equipped it instead, tightened Sera’s kerchief around his neck since it had loosened, before he retrieved the blighted blade he had dropped. A strange calm overcame him.

Lavellan looked at Solas again. He was still curled in on himself miserably. Lavellan walked towards him, unhurried, and kicked the sword Solas had dropped towards him. Solas looked up, expression broken. Something in Lavellan hardened further. He had believed Solas would never exploit the Well’s geas, that he placed too much value in individual will, in freedom of self, and Lavellan was right. Solas would never.

This man was no longer his lover.

“Pick up your sword, Dread Wolf,” said Lavellan, voice steady.

Resignation and defeat settled in the Wolf’s gaze. He straightened and picked up the sword.

Lavellan attacked.

It was quiet. Their blades rang as they met, the Wolf’s sword occasionally glancing off Cassandra’s shield, but it was quiet. Lavellan’s thoughts were quiet. The Well was quiet. The distant sounds of fighting were but a drone, easily dismissed.

The Wolf didn’t use his magic.

They fought but their hearts weren’t in it. They had left their hearts in a forgotten place and it had died and rotted there.

Lavellan glanced at the hillside where Leliana was. Her bow was lowered. All she did was watch helplessly and Lavellan’s calm strengthened. Good. She wouldn’t have a clear shot anyway since they moved about so much, and Divine Victoria would still be around to guide the new world this way.

He had made his peace. It was time to end this.

Lavellan pushed his body to its limit and beyond, forced himself to be faster, hit harder. He didn’t care about whatever fucking emotional turmoil his opponent was going through. All he cared about was that it gave Lavellan openings. He whittled the Wolf down. Little by little. Blunted his teeth, cut his claws.

The Wolf tore into him in return. Lavellan amassed wounds after every blow they traded, but he couldn’t feel the pain.

He knocked the Wolf’s sword out of his hand.

“It is too late,” said the Wolf as Lavellan poised for a killing blow. “The Veil is already falling. You know this.”

“I know,” he said.

Lavellan closed the distance.

The Wolf held out a hand and Lavellan’s fallen dagger flew into it. He angled the blade.

Slipped it through Lavellan’s ribs just as Lavellan returned the favour.

Blood filled his lungs.

Felled by his own weapon. Lavellan gave a rattling laugh. “Is this your victory?” 

The proud Wolf smiled. “As much as it is yours.”

Lavellan pushed the blade in the rest of the way and looked into the Wolf’s eyes, searched for his lover in the depths of all that sorrow and sacrifice.

He couldn’t find him.

“Farewell, Solas.”

Black veins spread up the Wolf’s neck, though at a slower pace than Cassandra’s. It didn’t matter. He was as good as dead.

Lavellan ripped the blade out from the Wolf’s chest and dropped it. The Wolf fell to his knees, gasping his final breaths as Lavellan gripped the hilt of the dagger lodged through his own ribs.

The Wolf looked up, eyes hazy.

“Don’t,” he rasped, face twisting from the effort. “It will act as a seal. You can— get help—”

Lavellan pulled the dagger out.

He made no noise of pain, no reaction save a swift grimace. His legs buckled. Collapsed.

As Lavellan fell, fell with the world and fell with the Veil, the first rays of dawn stubbornly slipped past the thinning curtain of smoke and magic and shone into his eyes. He could almost imagine its warmth. 

_“Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”_

_“The one they need.”_

Lavellan closed his eyes.

It was time to rest.

_Ara ma’athlan vhenas._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then he does it all over again.
> 
> (Childish_Midget has drawn a little something for this extra: [Click here to cry](https://noverturemusings.tumblr.com/post/635270596427743232/noverturemusings-bashes-down-your-door-and).)
> 
> This has not been revised that thoroughly, I am just a certified Impatient Bitch so you get it like this.
> 
> (Me crying as I write the action scenes because I've no idea what I'm doing, I'm sorry)
> 
> (Me crying in general because this final confrontation has given me emotions and I just wanted to share the pain. Don't touch me, I'm tender 🥺)
> 
> I listened to Achilles, Come Down by Gang of Youths on repeat while writing this and the lyrics only vaguely apply but the dark cello was just too fantastic of a vibe to pass up on.
> 
> Also, stabbing the heart is actually very difficult and finicky and requires a lot of force and precision so basically all I'm saying is these two were very determined.


	9. [Solas] Halamshiral Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Should be caught up to Chapter 45]
> 
> It was a night rife with intrigue and scandals. While Lavellan fought his battle of charm and wits, Solas skulked the corridors with his own agenda in mind.
> 
> (Solas' POV of Wicked Eyes).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the most productive when I am procrastinating. Ta da, have this! Part 1 of 2.

Black and gold. He had been the one to suggest the palette, yes, but this attire felt… ill-fitting. Not the fit of the uniform itself ― the measurements were satisfactory, perhaps even outstanding ― but rather, the attention it called. He supposed that was the point. It wasn’t a glaring kind of attention. In fact, it was rather subtle, but Solas had been used to his unassuming attires. Like this… Like this, some of the pretence fell. He already felt it, the part of him wishing to boast of its presence, straining to be freed after he had placed such heavy bars around it.

Though last night, Lavellan had opened the cage when he had asked for Solas’ full power. Told it, “Come,” and it went and purred embarrassingly quick beneath Lavellan’s hand. It was dissatisfied again after being told to return to its cage.

His grip tightened around his staff, his stringent control fraying. 

“You make everything so difficult,” he hissed into his empty room and shrunk his staff, tucking it into the coat. 

Still, there was another objective for tonight too. He left a few choice buttons open for easy removal and changing of attires later. Lavellan’s assignation of Solas to the caches proved both advantageous and disadvantageous for his personal goals. He had ease of access, but less time.

Another thrum of guilt. Solas swallowed it down and walked out, grabbed the Helm of the Drasca on the way.

The helm was his little mockery. The Orlesians would be none the wiser.

The foyer where everybody had gathered was littered with a sea of black and gold and he couldn’t help the pleased noise which escaped him. Elegant and formidable. Now get Sera to behave and they would be an intimidating assembly sure to set the Orlesians aflutter.

Solas walked across the foyer, intent on sequestering himself into a corner. Lavellan wasn’t here yet. What would he look like? Black and gold. It seemed incongruous with Lavellan and his sunlit presence.

 _“It would also match the colour of your eyes,”_ Solas had said. He had the pleasure of watching Lavellan flush from the comment, eyes widening slightly. They were small changes. The flush was barely visible due to the warm brown of his skin and the shift in his facial expression was so minute as to be practically non-existent, but Solas paid too close of an attention to such details.

“What in the Maker’s good forgiving grace is _that_?”

Dorian marched towards him with purpose, pointing an affronted finger at the helm in his hand. 

“A helm,” said Solas.

“A― That is hideous. You cannot be thinking of wearing that.”

“Not yet,” said Solas.

“I am going to tattle.”

“Go ahead.”

“I will tell the Inquisitor,” he warned. “And then he’ll do us all a favour and tell you to burn it.”

Solas smiled. “He will not if I tell him of its significance.”

Dorian crossed his arms. “I throw the gauntlet, then.”

“I did not realise this was a challenge.”

“Ho hum,” said Dorian and waved him off. Solas considered the consequences of singeing half of Dorian’s hair off so that he would be forced to wear this hat he so despised to hide the resulting atrocity.

Lavellan would give Solas a reprimanding look, arms crossed and brows pulled that certain way.

Solas poised himself beside the large vase instead. Focus. He must be quick tonight. He mapped his route out once more, the blueprint of the Winter Palace vivid in his mind’s eye. Not a single delay. He had already practiced multiple times in his dreams, could quite literally weave his way through the palace in his sleep, but it did no harm to be thorough.

The Iron Bull leaned against the wall beside him.

“Looking good, Solas. I saw Madame Vivienne sniff in approval.”

He scoured the foyer for the Enchanter but found her nowhere. “She is not here.”

“I think she’s helping Mercy prepare. Something about hair.”

Solas scowled. Vivienne’s contributions to Lavellan’s wardrobe _had_ been successful thus far, and while he couldn’t trust her intentions, he at least trusted her acumen regarding presentation. However, she had a tendency of going too far. Lavellan wished for subtlety, not extravagance.

“You excited?” asked Bull.

“Excited is not the word I would use.” Although, something within him tremored, already tasting the hints of courtly intrigue. That atmosphere of sly double-dealings and clever words and hidden agendas.

 _Lavellan watched the stars, a cold glint in his eye as he announced, “I think I’m going to let Celene die.”_

Solad had been taken aback by the declaration. He had been blind to that steel in Lavellan, or rather, did not witness it in this manner and never thought to see it. Tonight was more a battle of wits over blades. How would Lavellan fight? He had a way with words, certainly, but court was overwhelming and difficult to navigate.

“And you?” he asked Bull. “I imagine your background as a Ben-Hassrath gives you significant advantage.”

“I’m just here for the food, honestly. Orlesians give me a headache. They always make everything so complicated.”

Solas chuckled mildly in acquiescence. “You cannot deny its efficacy. Colours and ornate patterns distract, obfuscate. There is an art to it.”

“Less is more,” grunted Bull.

“True, perhaps. It would largely depend on the situation. There is also an art to being simple, but often simple things mask layers upon layers of confounding twists and patterns, and you would wish for the ornate back. Ornate complications announce they are confusing. Seemingly simple things are a trap. In that case, the truth of the matter becomes muddied and―”

A flash of movement.

Solas’ words died on his tongue and his train of thought vanished.

Lavellan strode into view, beckoned by Vivienne’s outstretched hand. “Come see your Inquisitor,” she announced, the subtle pride in her eyes nigh unnoticeable.

Solas could play into his theatrical side, conjure cosmic metaphors or poetic similes, but no words could do this justice. Could do Lavellan justice. All

Lavellan descended, his movements reminiscent of a blade cutting through water. Vivienne had smoothed his hair back and tousled it, as if to imply barely contained chaos. No, Lavellan himself was barely contained chaos. His presentation merely reflected this. The way he held himself suggested danger licking about his heels, as if he smiled while one hand held a glass of wine in conversational amiability and the other loosely held a knife. A threat. An invitation. A challenge. 

Light glinted off the silver ear cuffs. 

Knife-ear.

_“Turn what hurts me into mine.”_

Solas’ heart wrung itself into knots and all he had as he stared up at Lavellan, wicked in the most elegant of ways, was an impending vertigo.

Bull whistled obnoxiously. Lavellan’s head turned towards the sound and his eyes met Solas’ briefly.

Solas felt as if the floor had disappeared from beneath him.

Dorian received Lavellan at the bottom of the stairs and bowed, made his ridiculous sweeping statements as he took Lavellan’s hand and kissed it.

Solas reconsidered the hair-singeing plan. Lavellan at least had the good sense to roll his eyes.

Dorian’s disposition shifted, his attention falling on Lavellan’s ear cuffs. Lavellan smiled and tilted his head, light catching on the metal, and Solas’ throat dried. A trap.

_The illusion of certain victory._

Lavellan was the trap and he had Solas ensnared. Fool.

He wished to— To banish everybody from this room so that they could be alone, to shake and pry Lavellan loose so he could demand he free Solas from his grip. To ruin Lavellan the sweetest way Solas knew how. To see for himself that unbridled force Lavellan kept beneath a tight rein.

Lavellan had let go of those reins once. Solas had tasted it for himself and now he had grown greedy for it.

Their gazes met once again.

Solas could neither hide nor restrain his appreciative appraisal even if he tried.

“Inquisitor, please,” begged Dorian. Ah, here came the tattletale. “Tell Solas that he may _not_ wear that dreadful helm to the party.”

Lavellan shrugged, the gesture practiced. “I bet the helm is a subtle dig at Orlesian nobility. Let him.”

Solas couldn’t help the smug and triumphant look he sent Dorian. Once Lavellan moved on to conversing with the others, Dorian gestured at the helm, then opened his hand and let it spark subtly. _I will burn that hat._

He smiled. _You are free to try._

Josephine ushered them all outside and Solas’ lips twitched as the golden cape hanging off Lavellan’s shoulder swished. Gaudy on anyone else, but he made it work. Bull cleared his throat and nudged Solas.

“If you’re going to stare, at least tell him he looks nice.”

“He is aware of it, I would wager.” Surely he knew.

“Always nice to have it confirmed.”

“He has received his confirmation from you and Dorian.”

Bull eyed him. “C’mon, who are you kidding? You want to compliment him until he gets sick of it. You’re practically radiating it.”

“I am not,” he replied curtly. Solas could no longer project auras, but if he could, he would still repress it.

Bull laughed and clapped Solas on the back and Solas scowled at the force of it.

Solas was one of the last to go out into the courtyard, found Lavellan conversing with Cullen, the night winds lightly caressing him, threatening to throw his hair into further disarray. But it held.

Once Cullen left and Solas neared, he overheard Lavellan grumble, “Why must I ride alone again?”

“It would not hurt to be theatrical,” he said. Lavellan startled minutely but it was absent of any real distress and Solas smiled at how far they’d come. “So you and only you will be the first sight they see.” Image it: Lavellan emerging from the coach in regal black and gold, the picture of dangerous elegance, vicious charm. Half the court would immediately love him. The other half would immediately fear him. Wait until he brandished his silver tongue.

Yet it had tasted of thick, heady gold.

“And what a sublime sight that would be, too,” finished Solas.

“Flatterer,” said Lavellan.

“It was not flattery. Merely an observation.”

Lavellan stared at him. Whenever Lavellan stared, it was usually fleeting, the glance of a blade, an arrow whistling past. When it wasn’t, it pressed and rose in Solas’ chest like a merciless tide, a searing heat. 

This time, it brushed, lingered in cool appraisal. More than that; it wandered. Solas held himself still, placed a significant amount of effort into appearing composed.

“Admiring, Inquisitor?” he asked because if Lavellan stared any longer, Solas would immolate something nearby.

“Observing,” Lavellan returned smoothly.

Solas smiled and, foolishly, grew fonder. He kept his gaze away from Lavellan, focused on the coaches, otherwise he feared his longing would be writ across his face.

“Ah,” said Solas. “And what have you observed?”

“That perhaps it is you I should be wary of tonight.”

“Why is that?”

“Because there’s something entirely delighted in your eyes and I suspect it has something to do with the hat,” he replied. 

_Dear Lavellan, you are the one who has elicited this delight._

Solas looked forward to seeing him in court.

* * *

Grand Duke Gaspard retreated, bested by Lavellan in conversation. Where had he learned such a subtle way of speaking? Solas knew Lavellan had a way with words but this was…

He clenched his hands. Focus.

Lavellan faced them and nodded. “You know what to do.”

That Solas did. He walked at a brisk pace, avoided glancing at Lavellan lest the guilt in his stomach cripple him and there was no time for that.

Cole walked beside him, stared at Solas, but he said nothing.

Somehow, his silence was worse than anything that he could have said.

But Solas must do this.

Cole merely looked away, gaze dropping.

Solas separated from the others upon entering the Winter Palace, slipped into the servants’ hidden passages, and worked the buttons of his uniform off as he walked.

He crossed paths with another servant.

They pressed a change of clothes into his hands.

He changed swiftly and stashed the uniform into the first cache along with the weapons an Inquisition agent had placed behind an alcove statue.

Solas worked efficiently, prepared the hidden caches and the weapons within it.

He took care with Lavellan’s precious ironbark bow and made certain not to dwell so his focus wouldn’t scatter.

Any servants that weren’t his barely gave him a glance, too busy with the preparations.

He met with a servant at an intersection and followed them, weaving through the corridors, and they led him to the room housing the eluvian at the end of it. The servant left. Solas approached the eluvian.

The passphrase had been easy to retrieve once Briala began amassing agents.

_“They’re stronger than you think, you know,” said Felassan._

Foolish man. He had met with Solas despite knowing he would not survive their encounter.

Solas rubbed his face and shook his head clear of thoughts about Felassan. After all those years…

_“Rajelan!” he greeted, straightening to attention but Solas didn’t bother looking at him._

_“I am no longer your General. Leave.”_

_Solas had broken his sword, his badge of office, and had thrown the shards of the blade at Elgar’nan’s feet. The All-Father had been angered, though that was no surprise. Solas had been prepared for his retaliation._

_Foolish. Impulsive. He had taken his anger out on Solas’ soldiers instead. Burned their backs and prohibited healing._

_“You will always be my General,” he announced._

_“Must you receive a burn on your face, too? Leave.” Solas knew the burn on his back was hurting, that he could barely move, much less stand this upright._

_“He can tear me limb from limb, and I will still crawl my way to stand behind you.”_

_Solas faced him, teeth gritting. “Final warning. Or I will burn you myself.”_

_His gaze never wavered. “You would not. You are not as cruel as them.”_

_“You would be surprised.” Solas turned to walk away._

_“Is this about the incident last week? With the beast in the village? You were justified. It was the villagers' actions and poor choices which led to that beast’s appearance. They reaped what they sowed. Yet you spared the children. They had nothing to do with it.”_

_That was not the story circulating about; Solas was past caring._

_“My loyalty and allegiance is yours.” He paused. “And if you still don’t believe me, then I will change my name for you.”_

_Solas stopped, gaze flicking towards him in surprise._

_He smiled, his aura a flaring burst of unyielding loyalty. “Perhaps I could fall slowly like the arrow you had set upon the sky. Would Felassan work?”_

_“You cannot—”_

_“I can and I am.”_

Solas startled out of his reveries, the twisting in his stomach returning.

Focus. Leave those memories be.

“Fen’Harel enansal,” he whispered and the eluvian flooded with light and magic. When he had first heard of the pass, he had been convinced this was Felassan’s final, ironic trick. He wished to believe it was. Otherwise, it was just another declaration of Felassan’s supposedly unfailing loyalty because he had told enough stories about Solas to Briala in a light so flattering that she would use his blessing as a passphrase.

But Felassan had dropped this loyalty that he had harboured for centuries. All because of one girl.

One girl who would fade in a heartbeat. This girl so far removed from her roots, as fleeting as a leaf dropping during autumn.

Solas had only recently awoken then, raw from his hurt, lonely and adrift and loathing this world that he had brought about, so he had been unable to comprehend how Felassan could learn to care for such a transient thing. Felassan had been his one, solid connection to home. His betrayal had broken Solas' brittle composure. 

But now, Solas understood. A leaf could fall about in an enrapturing way, and even as the leaf neared the ground, neared the end of its flight, one couldn’t help but watch until the very end. It was the most hurtful thing of all. To know it would end and yet still care far too much. The brightest candle had the shortest life.

“You were right, is that what you wish to hear?” Solas asked to the empty room.

Something thick pressed behind his eyes and Solas entered the eluvian, distracted himself with the spray of its magic, breathing in the familiar air of the Crossroads. It wasn’t the same, of course it wasn’t, but it was the closest he would feel to home.

He navigated the realm, passed a few more servants scurrying about the network. Another of his agents led him to the labyrinth’s eluvian. It opened with the passphrase.

The labyrinth of runes rested at the bottom of the hall’s bowl-sloped floors, the stone pedestal for the keystone standing proudly at its centre. Solas stepped on the correct runes, navigated the twist of them with practiced ease, and reached the pedestal which was otherwise smooth save for the spot reserved for the keystone. Solas placed his hand upon it.

Forcefully overriding the control over a network wasn’t something he had done in a while, but he had recovered enough of his power to accomplish it.

Solas called on the ancient magic. The Veil resisted his pull, but the Veil was still, at its core, his own magic. It obeyed with enough concentration on his end.

The air shuddered.

Solas tilted his head.

And his power surged and flooded. The air hummed with a low, whining sound, the runes glowing a wrathful red, washing the entire room with that light. He had to be careful. Subtle enough that he could slip beneath Briala’s notice.

The red runes flashed green. The eluvians glowed. He would need a new passphrase.

Solas thought on it. He could just use the passphrases he had used in the past.

Or…

The idea came to him. He was going to regret this.

Solas whispered the new phrase.

The glow and lights faded, the room returning to its neutral lighting. Solas dimly sensed each eluvian within the network and smiled. He had done it.

He left and whispered the phrase to his agent waiting by the eluvian.

Solas returned to his task of arranging the caches and changed back to his uniform by the end of it, securing the helm over his head. This excursion had taken slightly longer than he had anticipated. When he returned to the vestibule, the Inquisition had already gathered by the corner and he wiped the traces of triumph from his expression.

“I apologise for my tardiness,” he said, staring at Lavellan’s back. The new passphrase echoed in his head, stung on his lips.

“Cutting it close, Chuckles,” said Varric. “Our dear Inquisitor’s worry exponentially increased every second.”

“I was only moderately worried,” said Lavellan and glanced at Solas. “How’d it go.”

“Successfully,” said Solas, buoyed by his triumph. Yet his lips still stung.

They discussed the situation before heading for the ballroom. Cole walked beside Solas once again, but he was staring at Lavellan.

“ _Lanastere enansal,_ ” Cole murmured. “It isn’t for you, but for those who will use it. You think it’s warm. And powerful. A shield. But it’s not for you. Why?”

“I am not deserving of it,” said Solas, smiling contently to himself.

Cole stared at him, blue eyes unerring. “Because it’s not a shield for you; it’s a sword.” He looked away and Solas’ throat dried. “Aimed at you.” His gaze turned distant. “Through the heart.”

Cole glanced away, overcome by a strange sadness.

“He lost his Pride,” murmured Cole, “and cursed the man by destroying what he last held dear. He fell with the sky. The sun soothed him. The water woke him.”

Solas frowned, unable to decipher Cole’s words.

Cole shook his head, clearing the haze which befell his eyes. “It’s not a sword, Solas.”

“What, then?” he asked.

“A key,” said Cole.

Solas frowned further. He stared at Lavellan once again and the passphrase was searing now. He was already regretting it.

Lanastere enansal.

Mercy’s blessing.

* * *

Solas sipped at the wine, relishing the sweetly acidic slide of it. Whenever the glass depleted, a servant would refill it for him and since he was in a strange mood, torn between victory and guilt, he merely smiled in appreciation at them instead of halting the flow of wine. He had stopped counting after the third glass. He mustn’t drink so much. Lavellan would need him later should a fight erupt which it most certainly will.

The wine, at least, offered an escape. Elevated the triumph and buried the guilt. He was in a good enough mood for Orlais’ opulence to amuse rather than irritate him.

And he supposed another had placed him in a good mood.

Here he came now.

Lavellan strode into the Guest Wing, and Solas noted that the elven servants pressed something into his hands but Lavellan proceeded as if it had not happened.

He stopped in front of Solas who smiled in greeting. The wine had loosened him somewhat. Not enough to inebriate but enough to delay irascibility and guilt.

“I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events,” he said, words only mildly blurring into each other. He congratulated himself on the delivery.

A flicker of surprise in Lavellan’s eyes, though Solas couldn’t be certain.

Lavellan stood beside him in a peculiar manner, and Solas realised why once he pulled out the note the servants handed him. Solas angled himself so he could further block anyone’s view of Lavellan.

“Secret admirers?” teased Solas.

“I’ll let you know.”

“And why is that?”

“You seem to enjoy knowing everything about everyone.”

 _I would like to know more about you_. This mystery of a man. Could Solas coax his secrets out, careful and gentle? Or would he have to piece it together himself?

They conversed further, Solas buoyed by both the alcohol and Lavellan’s presence. Lavellan tuned into a nearby conversation halfway through and Solas quieted, allowed him to collect his weapons. He glanced at Solas.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said. “I can do both just fine.”

“Are you boasting?”

Lavellan grinned, eyes flashing, ear cuffs glinting. Beautiful. “Kind of.”

“You have truly proven yourself a marvel tonight.” His quicksilver thinking and clever words had wrapped his threads through the court with a merciless grace. They should be grateful for it. To be at the mercy of such a merciless grace… Solas couldn’t think of a better way to fall.

_Stuttering breaths, soft hair gripped in his fingers, press of body and slide of lips and tongue._

No, he supposed there was another way to fall.

Lavellan perked at a change in the conversation he had been eavesdropping on and his eyes glittered. Fascinating. Lavellan was enjoying this.

Solas had run innumerable scenarios in his head, had entertained what Lavellan would be like at court. He went through many: irritated yet adept; wary and on-guard; overwhelmed and confused; unimpressed and unmoved.

As always, his imaginations never held up to reality.

“Hear that, Solas?” he asked, an almost boyish gleam in his eyes. “It would be a shame if word got out, wouldn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, I did not. You have dominated my attention.” The words escaped before he could halt them and Solas cursed the glass in his hand.

Lavellan’s entire attention returned to Solas, but the sharp focus in his eyes eased, replaced by a soft invasion of startlement. Perhaps Lavellan hadn’t meant to, but his gaze dropped briefly, a cue Solas had learned meant he was flustered. Something pleased rolled through him. He enjoyed the lethality of Lavellan’s focus, but better; he enjoyed being the one to scatter it, break it.

“Have you been drinking?” Lavellan asked and Solas smiled to himself at the topic change.

“Only a little. The servants have been happy to refill my glass.” Perhaps too happy.

Lavellan cleared his throat and pocketed the note. “Well, time to see where this leads.”

And so, the hunter would set off to stalk his prey.

Solas smiled. “Hunt well.”

Lavellan’s answering grin sent his heart apace.

Once Lavellan left for the gardens, a servant approached, bottle of wine poised to pour, but Solas held a hand up. They stopped immediately and shot him a confused look. He offered a small smile.

“Could you fetch me water please?”

* * *

Away from the eyes of the court, some of Lavellan’s facade fell and displayed his exhaustion. Of course, what he was doing required mental exertion. Although, Solas supposed it unfair of him to say Lavellan’s aptitude was a facade. It was merely a different side. Lavellan turned and twisted to show them the several facets of himself, and now that he could relax, he turned once more and displayed the side of Inquisitor and Friend. 

They finished rooting through the hidden parts of the palace and rid it of the Venatori, eventually finding themselves in the Empress’ old vault. Sera needled Lavellan into letting her pick the locks. The wine was still coursing through Solas so he tormented her with a little wordplay.

Lavellan’s laughter was an additional benefit.

After being sufficiently hassled by his and Lavellan’s tree puns, she left in a huff.

However, some of Lavellan’s good mood vanished as he retrieved the elven locket. He stayed quiet. Solas could not glean his emotions. He had wiped all emotion from his face and gave the locket a blank albeit considering look.

“It is of elven make,” murmured Solas, if only to fill the silence.

“They loved each other for twenty years.” And there crept the first hints of emotion. “Built on lies as it was. That doesn’t disappear easily.” His fingers traced the locket’s edges, face still carefully blank. “Love’s annoying like that.”

Something about his tone did not sit well with Solas.

“You sound as if you speak from experience.”

Lavellan said nothing, only pocketed the locket. That was answer enough on its own.

_“I killed him.”_

_“May I ask why?”_

_Haunted eyes stared right through him. “He killed me.”_

Could that man have been a past lover? If not, someone still important regardless.

Solas was uncertain how he felt about Lavellan thinking that Solas resembled whoever that was. A man who had betrayed him.

The guilt simmered and chafed.

Thankfully, Sera’s shouted warning gave him an avenue of escape through the fighting.

However, Briala’s reappearance merely triggered the echo of Felassan’s final words and Solas was left with emotions that he had no wish to deal with.

They returned to the Servant’s Quarters after, Cassandra and Sera going on ahead. Left him alone with Lavellan. The ballroom bell tolled. Lavellan worked on fixing his appearance and Solas was sure he could have managed, but still, he couldn’t help himself.

“Here.” He turned Lavellan and appraised his attire. Nothing was too out of place. In fact, it was passable, but he fixed Lavellan’s collar anyway. His knuckles brushed over Lavellan’s neck as he drew his hand back. He fixed and fussed. Pathetic excuses to keep touching Lavellan and stay in his presence. Once Solas ran out of things to fix, he declared it better.

“Once again,” said Lavellan. “I feel as if you care more about the uniform than me.”

“The uniform is your armour for tonight. I would prefer if it performed to a satisfactory standard.”

“You could’ve just said, ‘I don’t want you to die.’”

Solas glanced at him. “I don’t want you to die.”

Lavellan stared, an indecipherable tangle of emotions flashing in his eyes. They were close enough that Solas could discern the faint burnished burst of orange around his pupils. Lavellan smiled, wry. Solas’ heart wrung itself. Sometimes, Lavellan looked as if he was supposed to be dead.

“Well,” said Lavellan, voice dry, “better go back to the ballroom. Jo’s right. Fashionably late’s a very fickle window.”

 _No, stay_ —

“One moment.” He tried to find another excuse, and he settled for fixing Lavellan’s hair. Soft beneath his hand. Whatever Vivienne applied to make it stay, it was about to wear off. Lavellan stared at him, tense. He was always tense.

Solas’ mind returned to steam and whispered stories.

Well, not always. 

“I’m sure I can survive if one strand is a millimetre off,” said Lavellan and Solas relaxed at the levity returning to his tone and gaze. 

“I am sure.” With great reluctance, he stepped away. “There. Go on. Charm and unnerve the Orlesian nobles in equal measure.”

The second bell tolled and Lavellan threw a cheery goodbye before he was out. The door shut.

Solas stared at the door. Then at his hands. Where did such melancholy come from? Often, he would look into Lavellan’s eyes and find something older and haunted. What had placed it there? Was it from the betrayals he had endured? Something else? 

An elf with secrets and a pet raven and Dirthamen’s vallaslin. Solas loathed the imagery. His blood simmered at the thought of Dirthamen but he shook his head. 

Still, Lavellan’s similarities to Dirthamen had him uneasy. Lavellan had been hunting a raven-cloaked figure in the Dirthavaren, Lavellan had been chasing down the glyphs Solas knew could only be the work of Dirthamen. Even Lavellan’s presence in the Fade was… strange. In dreams, Solas sometimes spied dark wings wrapped around Lavellan, but it would disappear whenever he focused on it.

He knew not to dismiss such things as imagination. Not in the Fade.

Lavellan’s martial aptitude was also telling of training outside of Dalish clans. He moved in no way Solas had seen before. He had investigated Clan Lavellan and their history, and yes, they raised exceptional fighters, but never to Lavellan’s extent. Lavellan had taken on fifteen Venatori. And yes, Solas had helped, but that was the other matter. Lavellan had weathered such a pure and concentrated press of magic, had worked with it, the Veil practically singing from how well they had connected. It had worked so well that Solas almost got carried away.

Because Lavellan could weather it. Solas knew. Something in him _knew_. 

“Who are you?” he asked to the empty room.

* * *

“The Grand Duchess is dancing with the Inquisitor!”

Solas stopped. He huffed out a disbelieving breath. Surprise after surprise. Rather than return to his post, he bypassed it, ignored Bull’s questioning look, and swung into the garden where Dorian lounged on a marble bench. 

“Solas!” he greeted. “Stepping out for fresh air?”

“Will you take over my post for a few minutes?”

Dorian raised a brow.

“The Iron Bull is inside,” said Solas. “You may engage him in conversation instead of mooning at him through the window.”

He sniffed. “That’s really not convincing me.”

“The Inquisitor is dancing.”

Dorian blinked, then slowly, an irritating, smug grin spread across his face. He stood, slung his arm around Solas.

“Solas, Solas, Solas, could it be? You wish to watch?”

His jaw clenched.

Dorian chuckled. “Solas, just ask him to dance when all this is over.”

Would Lavellan even accept?

“Alright, since I’m such a good friend,” said Dorian. “Go ahead.”

“ _Are_ we good friends?” Solas dryly mused.

“Oh I wasn’t talking about you,” he said airily and waved his hand. “I consider us rivals.”

“Rivals. You are hardly competition.”

“Hm, let’s see… Who has made Mahanon swoon the most?”

Solas trained a blank look on him even as he grabbed Dorian’s arm and took it off his shoulders.

 _And who has kissed him?_ He did not say that. 

“Have you two even hugged?” Dorian asked.

“I do not see how that has anything to do with me wishing to see him dance. _Hurry up_.”

“I already said yes, didn’t I?” he asked with an irritating grin and Solas spun on his heel and walked away towards the ballroom. How long did a traditional Orlesian valse go for? Solas slipped into the ballroom and squeezed in between the throng of people that had gathered. It took some subtle nudging and pushing but Solas managed to gain a place by the edge of the upper tier and looked down at the dance floor.

Once again, his breath left him.

There was the Inquisitor in his black and gold uniform and the Grand Duchess in her voluminous white gown. They made an elegant picture. A swirl of black and white and gold. The dance floor was clear, the other nobles watching from the sidelines. Light occasionally caught on his ear cuffs.

Lavellan wove through the dance as though a storm. Calm and controlled in the centre, but the rest? Swept away from the force of it, the force of him.

He spun Florianne, liquid, and Solas caught a flash of his cutting smile.

Ah, so he was mid-fight.

Lavellan pulled her close, hand settling on her back as he dipped her, form immaculate. The nobility gasped. Solas gripped the balustrade. In truth, Solas wished to dance with him but how could he? A nobody apostate dancing with the Inquisitor would hurt the careful reputation Lavellan built.

If it had been Elvhenan, if he had been―

Lavellan would be well-loved. Elves from near and far would clamour to meet him, to have the pleasure of his company. They would wish to dance with him. 

And Solas would sweep in and steal him for a dance himself, if Lavellan deigned to accept. Solas would be the object of everybody’s envy as he held and spun the most sought man in the room and he would relish it. Or perhaps, he wouldn’t share at all. No eyes on them. Lavellan to himself.

He closed his eyes and turned away just as the dance finished.

No. He could not afford to be so selfish. This was― He could not indulge in such fantasies.

Elvhenan was gone.

Solas left the ballroom and its smattering of approving applause.

He entered the Guest Wing where Dorian and Bull were conversing and Solas scrutinised the interaction, the gentle light in Bull’s eye, the softness of Dorian’s smile. It had been an interesting development to witness over the course of months.

Solas caught the eye of one of the servants who offered him a tray of drinks. He took another glass of wine with a grateful nod and threw it back as if it were common ale rather than one of Orlais’ finer casks. Solas managed half. He returned to his post, blinked away the slight disorientation. Dorian stared at him with an amused smile.

“Had fun?” he asked. “How was he?”

_Spectacular. Unattainable. A force of nature._

“His lessons have paid off,” Solas said instead. 

Bull studied Solas who ignored him.

“Back to your post before the Inquisitor gives us all a scolding,” said Solas.

Dorian raised his hands. “Oh no, not me. I’ll throw you under the carriage wheel. _You_ will get a scolding, not I.”

“How endearing that you think the prospect of his scolding cows me.”

“Maker, you’re tipsy.”

“And how have you come to this conclusion?”

“Because you’re smiling?”

Solas was indeed smiling. He dropped it.

Dorian laughed and waved him off once more, the gesture as aristocratic as ever. “Oh very well, I’ll go.” He sauntered off and they watched him go out into the gardens. Solas shot Bull a look.

“Dance with him later,” Solas said.

“Only if you dance with Mercy.”

“Do not fool yourself. This is more than simple physical attraction now.”

Bull grimaced. “Mind saying that a bit louder? I don’t think that dowager by the far left corner heard you.”

Solas snorted into his glass. 

“Also, I really don’t want to hear this from you of all people. Just tell him for fuck’s sake.”

He could _not_. Not after he had made a mess of things by kissing him as Fen’Harel right after that incident at the baths. Solas had trapped them both. He could tell Lavellan wished to make sense of it but had nowhere to go.

“I complicated things,” murmured Solas.

Bull paused. Then, “Think you can uncomplicate it?”

Solas stared at the wine. There was one way to uncomplicate it properly and a multitude to run from it. But Lavellan did not deserve those multitudes. He deserved the truth. 

He wished for Lavellan to know.

Solas was not deaf to his agent’s whispers. Of their hopes of Lavellan and Solas joining forces. Solas had considered it, in truth; could see the appeal of it. Solas had held positions of leadership in his lifetime, yes, but he still considered Lavellan the better leader in terms of earning and keeping loyalty. Solas held centuries’ worth of knowledge for tactical planning, military procedures, and subterfuge. But he must confess, the rate at which he earned loyalty was slow. It hadn’t been a problem in Elvhenan, but in this world of finite time, he didn’t have decades to cultivate it.

Most of his agents saw him as their saviour, or at least, a means to survive. That was why Solas had their loyalty. But such loyalty was fickle.

And while most of the Inquisition was initially loyal to Lavellan because they believed him their Herald, they still had numerous non-Andrastians within their ranks who followed because of the man, not the Herald. Even then, the Andrastians’ loyalties remained unwavering. They had come for the Herald and then stayed for the man.

Whatever Lavellan’s convictions were, he could make you adopt them.

With Solas’ power and knowledge of leading armies combined with Lavellan’s more subtle way of operating and his propensity to earn stalwart followers…

Well, even Solas feared this hypothetical army of theirs.

But he could not do that to Lavellan. Lavellan loved this world. This was a path Solas must walk alone, and he would not drag Lavellan to the dark depths of it.

He had no wish for Lavellan to know.

 _Could_ he uncomplicate this?

“I don’t know,” Solas finally answered. “Possibly.”

Bull responded by patting his back before he returned to his post, stationed by the food because of course. Lavellan walked in a handful of minutes later. Their gazes met once more. Solas could only raise a glass to him in salute and Lavellan smiled back. His sincere smile. The one which pushed his cheeks and squinted and softened his eyes. 

Solas drank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when someone uses their S.O's name or something related to them as a password? That's literally what Solas fucking did.
> 
> What do you do when you're a conflicted mix of triumph, guilt, melancholy, and love? Drink.


	10. [Solas] Halamshiral Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Should be caught up to Chapter 45]
> 
> Lavellan's plan was ready and he need only pull on a string and the rest would unravel. It was ready.
> 
> And he had thrown it all away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha solas go brrrrr

Everything fell beautifully into place. Lavellan had threaded his strings through the Orlesian court, held the spool of it in the palm of his hand, and all he had left to do was pull.

At least, that _was_ the plan.

Confronted by the sight of Florianne steadily approaching her destination, Lavellan’s breathing changed in subtle distress. His gaze flew from Florianne, to the Empress, and back. Solas wouldn’t have picked up on it had he not attuned himself to Lavellan from the very beginning as an effort to monitor his wellbeing. He hadn’t known how important Lavellan would have become. Now, being so finely attuned to his minute behaviours was more a detriment than a useful skill on Solas’ part. The Anchor flickered.

It was Leliana who Lavellan looked to. Leliana ― usually so sharp, cold as marble ― softened and procured from within her coat the wooden carving Lavellan had gifted her.

Lavellan paused. Florianne was almost at the end of the ballroom. 

“I hate myself,” whispered Lavellan before he fixed his appearance and rushed towards the dance floor.

“What?” asked Bull. Solas frowned in agreement. Lavellan shifted his demeanour and swept onto the dance floor with a confident yet lazy stride. He spread his arms out and called for Florianne. 

Nobody could tear their gazes away. Though the Orlesians’ adoration for theatrics played a part, Lavellan knew how to command attention and twist it for his gain.

A chill shot through Solas.

It was fortunate that one with such skill had a kind and compassionate nature, otherwise, they may just witness the birth of another monster. Solas didn’t know if he could stomach it again.

Lavellan stripped Florianne of her defences with well-chosen words; did this is all with a simple grace. His entrance had been theatrical, the execution swift, and the end made sweeter for it as they dragged Florianne away, her cries of defeat meeting the wall of Lavellan’s cool impassivity. It was difficult to believe that he had been distressed beforehand.

Lavellan’s departure with the three prominent figures of the night left the court in a brief, still state. The drawing of a breath.

Then a flurry. Whispers, chatter, gossip, scandalised gasps. Once again, Lavellan left things in a disarray once he tracked his touch over them. Truly a hurricane. Solas could only lean against the wall in careful contemplation.

“You’ve done wonders to him, Josie,” remarked Leliana. 

Josephine shook her head, bewildered. “I taught him the art of diplomacy but that was… He is certainly a charismatic leader but to think…”

“He has done this before,” murmured Leliana to herself before she tucked her hands behind her back and nodded at Cullen. “We should consult with our people, flush out any remnants of the Venatori.”

Cullen blinked, then nodded back.

Josephine clapped her hands. “Well! This was certainly an exciting night.”

Everybody awaited the end of the meeting, and Solas wagered that the nobility did not expect for the Inquisitor to have a seat at the table. They had begun the night with mockery. Look where they were now: eating right out of his hands, singing his praises.

Solas couldn’t be sure whether he was unnerved or impressed.

“Scared and horny,” said Bull to Solas. “The feeling is called scared and horny since you’re looking so confused.” Blackwall chortled beside him.

“If I were to accidentally drop the nearby vase over your proportionally small head,” said Solas and ignored Bull’s squawk of offence, “how long do you suppose you will be unconscious for?”

“Can you even reach me?”

Solas flicked his hand subtly and the water within the vase shot out to wet Bull in the face. He suppressed a smile at the indignant yelp.

The inner circle soon regathered. Sera cackled and held her hand out to a disgruntled Varric who passed her ten sovereigns. 

“I was gearing for the ‘overwhelmed Inquisitor fighting the battle in another way, succeeding despite the odds through painstaking effort’ narrative,” said Varric. “I should’ve expected this kind of shit. Really strengthening my ancient elven prince theory.”

“And as was said before,” said Solas, “that implies him a god.”

Lavellan as an Evanuris.

No. 

Solas would not wish that upon him. Not when Solas already pressed the burden of Herald of Andraste upon his shoulders. Lavellan would loathe being an Evanuris. As Solas did.

Though at least they would not be alone in their distaste if they had one another.

He considered it. For a fleeting moment, he considered it. The Evanuris all had their pairs save Fen’Harel. But if Lavellan had been the tenth, could they have been…

It was a sweet thought. Sweet in a way that was more acidic wine than candied treats. Rich yet ruinous.

Solas imaged it. For one, vulnerable, tempted moment, he imaged it.

It was the court’s atmosphere, he told himself. It was the court’s atmosphere and Lavellan’s navigation of it which had placed such thoughts in his head.

Still, Lavellan’s plans were ruined. With Celene alive, there was no feasible way to manoeuvre Gaspard into power so that Briala’s shadow may loom behind him. What would Lavellan do now? 

“Ah, Solas, that hideous hat is finally gone,” chirped Dorian’s obnoxious voice. “And I thought this night couldn’t get any better.”

Perhaps Solas could burn the moustache instead. Dorian cared far more about it than the hair.

“Can we go home now?” grumbled Bull. “They’re running out of food.”

“Not yet,” said Dorian. “His fight isn’t quite finished.”

They eyed the balcony doors.

What made Lavellan change his mind? Everything had been in place, pieces set, threads wrapped. Was this a secret part of his plan? No, it couldn’t be. He was in great distress earlier and Solas couldn’t shake off the soft murmur of self-hatred Lavellan had uttered to himself. Did he truly believe that?

Orlesian guards entered the balcony and returned escorting the Grand Duke in chains. To Gaspard’s credit, he walked with dignity. 

The crowd exploded with commotion.

“Holy shit,” said Varric. 

Solas glanced out the balcony doors once more, attempted to glean even a glimpse of Lavellan, but he could only discern the sliver of Celene’s royal blue gown and the golden sunray ornament.

Gaspard was gone. Solas supposed he understood why. Gaspard’s presence left one option: a public truce. It was an arrangement which would last long enough for the Inquisition to handle Corypheus, but its instability would unravel. In the long-term, it would cripple Orlais. Gaspard and Celene could not co-exist.

But Briala would ultimately net the most power ― and the most danger ― with Gaspard on the throne. Solas frowned.

Felassan had placed his faith in Briala. Now Lavellan.

She _could_ introduce change. And she employed the eluvians cunningly, he would not deny. Only, she did not realise the true potential of the tools she played with but of course, he couldn’t expect anything more.

She could introduce change.

And how long would that take? A few centuries? Decades? Years? Orlais did not rot over a swift handful of years. It was a slow process. Fermented corruption. It would take as long, if not longer, to eliminate the fester of it.

He clenched his fists. They did not have that time. 

Ideally, if Lavellan wished for Briala to survive, he should reunite her and Celene. He had kept the locket. If he spun the narrative…

No, that was deceitful. And Lavellan had already expressed his distaste about the circumstances of their relationship.

What now?

Solas swept his gaze across the Orlesian court, found the Inquisition soldiers scattered throughout the crowd, imposing in their black attire.

He laughed to himself.

“What?” asked Bull.

“To think,” said Solas, “that Orlais’ fate rested in the hands of a Dalish elf.”

How could a Dalish elf command and navigate politics in such a manner? Natural talent could only take one so far.

Celene swept back into the ballroom and stood at the helm, ready for an address. Solas glanced at Lavellan. He was impassive, holding himself straight, hands behind his back, gaze trained ahead to give the illusion of focus, but Solas suspected he was lost in his thoughts.

The Empress began her pretty speech. Pretty in the Orlesian fashion of delicate and false. Not to say that the alliance was false, but the process of reaching it was not as amiable as the result.

So had Lavellan reunited Celene and Briala after all?

“Let the cornerstone of change be laid,” announced Celene as she gestured Briala forward. “I introduce the newest member of our court: Marquise Briala of the Dales.”

Solas’ brows raised.

_“I want to give the Dales back to the elves.”_

He made good on that. A step towards it, at the very least. But he must know what this looked like: favouritism on Celene’s part and sycophancy on Briala’s. A lover’s bias.

Yet Briala and Celene shared no warm looks. No indication of fondness. Indeed, the space between them yawned with ice and anybody with eyes, intoxicated as they were for most of the court, could see.

Solas’ gaze was drawn back to Lavellan who was half-cast in shadow.

Briala finished her speech. The Orlesians had been sated with dramatics for tonight so their reception to the recent developments was warm. Solas knew it was only a matter of time. Briala would need to fight with all she had to retain that position and defend herself and her people.

And Solas had taken their greatest weapon.

_“They’re stronger than you think.”_

Felassan’s words echoed in his head once again and Solas’ nails would have cut into his palms if not for the gloves.

_“You know, I suspect you’ll hate this, but she reminds me of―”_

Solas had felled him before he could finish the statement.

 _She reminds me of you_.

The anger did not last long after, if at all. Regret and sorrow had immediately claimed him, a tidal wave of mistakes upon mistakes. Felassan had been with him since― 

He closed his eyes, the sounds dulling, the colours overwhelming. 

The mantra of apologies replayed for so long in his head that it became a drone.

Lavellan’s voice cut the mantras short. Solas’ eyes snapped open, some part of him immediately seeking the sound for comfort, and he relaxed the slightest as Lavellan’s voice swept across the ballroom. 

“But that is tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate!” declared Celene upon the conclusion of Lavellan’s speech. “Let the festivities commence!”

The switch flipped. The Orlesians dropped social sensibilities as Celene retreated and the party swung into the indulgence brought about by the late hour and flowing liquor. Solas observed Briala and Celene. 

No kisses, no lingering gaze or touches, nothing but frigid distance.

No, Lavellan had not reconciled them. 

Oh, of course. He had collected ammunition against Celene as well. Somehow, he had wrangled Celene into granting Briala the title.

Without the public’s attention on him, Lavellan drew into himself slightly. Despite the success, the change of plans clearly took a toll. He and Briala spoke in a corner.

Any moment, Briala would realise what Solas had done.

“Well, that was exciting,” said Dorian. 

“Where’s Sera?” asked Blackwall.

“You were supposed to be watching her!” cried Josephine.

Everyone scattered to partake in the afterparty or retreat for the night, giddy from victory. The orchestra began once more. Gone were the rigid and systematic pieces suited for exhibiting one’s skill and control in the dances, replaced instead with the sensual valses of the intimate variety. Fit for holding one close and forgetting about the world.

He could dance with Lavellan now. If Solas dared to ask.

Bull pushed off the wall and dusted off his coat.

“I’m going to dance with Dorian,” said Bull.

Solas eyed him. “Wherefrom is this sudden courage?”

“Not courage. I want to dance. With him. Simple.”

“Is it?”

“Ask Mercy to dance.”

“He is the Inquisitor. I was introduced as his manservant.”

Bull guffawed and drew no prudish looks for the raucous noise this time. Most were too deep in their cups or lost in the intimacies of court — or both. A few had already made themselves scarce. Some could not wait, occupying some shadowed alcove and engaging in dances of a more venereal quality. Interesting though that the dances on the ballroom floor never crossed the line of suggestive. Orlesians weren’t keen on public displays of such a nature, it seemed.

“Look around, Solas,” said Bull. “Nobody gives a shit anymore.”

“He may not even wish to dance. He is likely exhausted.”

“Guess you’ll never know if you don’t ask.” Bull hummed as he walked off and approached Dorian who lurked by the drinks. They exchanged brief conversation. Bull offered his hand, grinning, and Dorian stared at it in clear stupefaction. Solas almost expected him to decline.

But he placed his hand in Bull’s. They descended onto the dance floor and Dorian took over from there, laughing at Bull’s missteps, though not unkindly, and corrected it with a fond smile.

Solas glanced back at Lavellan who had retreated into a side balcony. Understandable enough. Tonight must have been an extreme exercise of patience and cunning. He always withdrew once his duties were finished.

The Court Enchanter followed him.

Solas frowned. 

_Leave him be_. Solas moved to follow them, but an agent of his caught his eye and he paused. They inclined their head. Solas shot the balcony another look, before he briskly approached the agent. A demure elven girl with amber eyes. Not quite the same gold as Lavellan.

She made no obeisance, thankfully.

“Yes?” he asked, terse.

“Briala has been informed of the eluvians’ state. What are your instructions?”

Ah. “Hold,” he said. “Find Samara and give the clear.”

“My lord,” she murmured in accedence and slipped away. The address was still an odd fit but he accepted it with the same sighing defeat Lavellan did when referred to as ‘Your Worship’.

He turned sharply on his heel and strode towards the balcony, ready to interrupt impetuously and grant Lavellan reprieve, but there was no need. The Court Enchanter and he intersected at the door. They shared a look.

Solas stepped aside and let her through. She inclined her head in gratitude and drifted past, Solas frowning at her retreating back. Her presence had been… familiar. Faded, but familiar.

He transferred his gaze towards his original objective. 

Lavellan had his arms braced against the railing, eyes on the stars in thought. Solas approached. Slight movement of Lavellan’s head, heard his coming. 

Solas leaned against the railing, cold stone biting into his back, and appraised Lavellan who stared back with unimaginable exhaustion and overthinking writ upon his face. As suspected. This change of plans had given him great distress. 

“Talk to me?” asked Solas. “What are you thinking?” What had gone through his mind to change course like this? “You were so certain the whole night then you… changed your mind, and it did not come without grief.”

Lavellan gave no answer, instead busied himself with removing his gloves and blowing strands of his hair off his face. It stubbornly refused. The rest of his hair was in disarray, falling out of its careful arrangement and imparted Lavellan a touch of wildness. But Solas was not here to talk about hair.

“Lethallin,” Solas said and cut off his stalling. Lavellan huffed, face twisting.

“I hate Orlais, I hate the Game, I hate court.”

The man he had been observing the entire night did not have the look of a man who was hating every moment of it, although perhaps Lavellan was pretending? No, that couldn’t be. The gleam in his eyes had been sincere.

“Yet you excelled at it. You had an entire empire wrapped around your smallest finger. It looked as if you were enjoying yourself.”

“And that’s the problem,” said Lavellan, the exhaustion dulling his eyes. “You’re right. I enjoyed myself. I felt alive.” He glanced back at the party. “And I got carried away. This whole empire is poison. It tastes nice for the first few sips before it settles into something heavy and by the time you notice, it’s in your system and you’re choking.”

Solas stared at him. Lavellan undercut the powerful sentiment with a dismissive snort.

“Dramatic of me, I know.”

“Though not entirely incorrect,” he said. It was a phenomenon many grasped too late. “Is that why you changed course?”

Lavellan explained his reasoning. Duty or principle once again. Solas couldn’t name the tangle of emotions festering within him and he hadn’t the will or energy to attempt.

“When cornered, you seem to always choose principle,” said Solas.

Lavellan’s eyes grew heavy. “Not always.” What was he thinking? “Not that it mattered. I traded one death for another.”

But the situation was _different_. Grand Duke Gaspard knew the risks of gearing for the throne, and this was simply the consequence of losing. Perhaps he had lost to an unexpected opponent, but all the same. And Solas disliked the thought of Gaspard lurking around the corner, biding his time, seething with a desire for vengeance against Lavellan. He explained as such but there was no need. Lavellan _knew_.

Solas should have known from the very beginning that Lavellan would be like this. Lavellan had _counted_ the dead bodies they passed as they navigated the valley in Haven. But he could not keep doing this. It would destroy him.

“Why do you this?” Solas asked. Why must he torture himself?

“Do what?”

“This,” he said, almost yelled it, but he held himself back. “It is not… It is self-destructive.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Lavellan’s eyes flashed with resolve. “I promised I wouldn’t let war or politics remove the individual value of life.”

And he was entirely serious about that sentiment. It was no false declaration of humility. That was worse. Such a mentality was taxing. _Why_ was he destroying himself like this? It took an outrageous amount of will to adhere to such a strict principle. Why could Lavellan not grant himself the same leniency that he so willingly gave to others?

What had made him like this? What had turned him so…

“You are frightening.”

Lavellan frowned. “Why?”

This entire night had revealed the steel within Lavellan, revealed that he knew how to make use of it. And that he loathed when he did. An artist who hated their craft.

“Because I see in you the capacity to become a monster,” said Solas. “The worst kind. A cunning one. You can make others love you far too easily, isolate your enemies and strip them of their defences while you smile. It would be too late when they realise.”

“You overestimate me, I think,” said Lavellan.

 _And you underestimate yourself_. “I estimate you the right amount.” Solas watched the court beyond the doors, the indulgence and decadence. It truly could twist a person. “Only your kindness and compassion still your hand.”

“Do I frighten you?” asked Lavellan and Solas almost laughed.

Did he frighten Solas? How could he not? He was a brilliant creature, searing and vibrant, and if the elves of Elvhenan knew him, they would know they were mistaken to have attributed the sun to Elgar’nan. The sun is both life and destruction. Warmth and burning. Lavellan encapsulated this duality perfectly.

He would fall and yet rise, day after day. Hung on the sky steadfastly even as the world told him to be a certain way. Told him to be firm and cruel and detached.

And Lavellan would stare it in the eye and decline.

Did Lavellan frighten him?

“More than anyone else,” Solas answered truthfully, but he feared his sincerity would gain a language of its own and impart the full extent of his sentiments to Lavellan, so Solas moved on before Lavellan could register the implications. He should not have had so much liquor.

Solas was unsure how the conversation turned to Briala and the modern elves, however, he could say with full confidence that this was not a conversation he wished to be having.

“They’re stronger than you think,” said Lavellan and Solas pressed his lips into a grim line. Verbatim with Felassan. “We’re stronger than you think,” he continued, eyes back on the stars, as if challenging the expanse of it, daring it to crush him so that he could laugh at its attempts and rise against it. Stalwart. 

Of course he was strong. Strength of character, strength of compassion, strength of resistance. The world pulled him to be one thing and he resisted. Held onto himself. As much as he could.

“Your strength, I do not doubt,” said Solas. It was one thing he admired about Lavellan. “It takes incredible willpower to remain steadfast to your beliefs in the face of a world who would seek to pervert you.” Solas had abandoned himself, over and over, and would continue to do so. This was larger than him.

“I have a terrible feeling you’re taking the wrong message from this,” Lavellan muttered. “And do you not see the strength in the elves of Halamshiral? The flames of a fight still linger even after Celene tried to stamp it out. Even as the rest of the world turns their back on them. They fight with all they have. They persevere.”

Unbelievable, this man. Ridiculous. “Do you ever just take a compliment?”

“Answer the damn question.”

For someone worn down by court, he certainly had plenty of breath to spare to be argumentative.

“I apologise,” said Solas after their brief exchange, though he was far from apologetic, “if I don’t feel up to involving myself with those who have shunned or scorned me.”

“What about Clan Venalin?” Lavellan returned, voice settling into its impassioned tone. “The elves in Skyhold? Don’t think I don’t see you swinging by to converse magical theory with Grand Enchanter Fiona and some of the apprentices.” Solas’ shoulders tensed. That was— They were—

 _Different? How many could become different? How many could you afford to become_ different _?_

None.

Lavellan faltered, eyes flickering with uncertainty as he glanced down.

“What about me?” he asked, the impassioned tone replaced by a vulnerable hesitance and the tangle festering within Solas caught in his throat.

“V—” Solas caught himself. “Lethallin, of course you matter to me.” Too much. Detrimentally so. How had this come to pass? When had Lavellan burrowed himself so far beneath Solas’ skin?

“And the rest?”

Solas almost swore at him.

“You are different.” But the argument was beginning to feel weak.

“No.”

The tangle of unnamed emotions clawed at the confines of Solas composure and he ground his teeth.

“I’m sorry you met those who turned you away. Please understand they were just afraid. It might… take a bit more work. But it’s worth it. We’re worth it.”

“How are you so—” He cut himself off and swallowed the temptation to yell at Lavellan and shake him by the shoulders. This temper that Solas had thought himself rid of always resurfaced to grasp him by the throat whenever Lavellan was involved.

He paced and muttered to himself. An effort to curb any further rise in ire and to make sense of the thorns Lavellan pressed into his sides with his words. Him and his words. A dagger for each hand, another for his mouth.

Yet it had not been sharp at all.

A grounding weight rested on his shoulder and Solas stopped, looked at Lavellan, face pulling into a frown.

“It’s alright,” Lavellan reassured, the obstinacy in his gaze replaced with placation. “It’ll be alright.”

“You cannot promise that.” Despite himself, he calmed.

“It’s not a promise, it’s a reassurance.” The echo of laughter from within the ballroom caught their attention and Solas blinked, had forgotten for a moment that a world existed outside them both. That was… a dangerous thought. He must train himself out of it. Soon.

Lavellan let go of him. His shoulder felt bereft but warm.

“But let’s save that discussion for another time,” said Lavellan as he leaned against the railing with another sigh. “It’s been a long night already.”

That it has. “An understatement.” Solas regarded him as he returned to Lavellan’s side. “And no matter the emotional grief involved, tonight was still a victory against Corypheus. Your exposure of Grand Duchess Florianne was masterful. Nobody could tear their eyes away from you.” Least of all Solas. “Where does a Dalish elf learn to manipulate an imperial court?”

“Josephine Montilyet’s office,” was his swift reply. Solas trusted in Josephine’s diplomatic abilities, but even she had admitted that she did not teach him _this_. “Where does an elven apostate learn to sneak about court well enough to smuggle weapons in?”

Ah, so Solas was to come under fire for daring to probe. 

“The Fade,” he said. It was no fabrication. He had spent innumerable years observing court so that he may better impart wisdom to those who sought it. And after physicality… He ceased observing. Became a player.

Lavellan smiled sweetly. The kind of sweet which tempted overindulgence and later struck with a stomachache. “Then let us thank our brilliant teachers.”

Solas stared at this enigma of an elf who revealed more of himself to Solas than anyone else and yet, the more he revealed, the more questions it inspired. Answers were questions in disguise, as Lavellan once said. It was an accurate enough statement.

Infuriating when put into practice.

Still, it was in Solas’ nature to pursue answers. “It occurs to me that I barely know anything about your past.” Mentions, yes ― brief smudges of impressions, but not a complete picture. Lavellan painted an unremarkable enough past, absent of mystery, a peaceful existence with his Clan. Yet something was still missing. Parts of him did not sum into a coherent conclusion.

“Nor I yours,” Lavellan returned, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. _Is this a game you wish to play?_ it seemed to ask and rather than capitulate and retreat, Solas took a foolish yet thrilled step forward.

“What Dalish clan would have ever encountered a Qunari, much less spent a long enough time with them for you to develop such a close bond?” 

“Been sitting on that one for long, have you?”

Solas smiled at his disgruntled expression. Yes, the Qunari had appeared in Kirkwall in droves, but most Dalish clans were too wary to ever interact with them. And if they had, it seemed even more implausible that a Dalish and Qunari would have formed a close enough bond that Lavellan would later take their decision to follow the Qun’s demands as a betrayal. Not with the Qunari’s distance or the Dalish’s caution.

“Many extraordinary things happen every day,” said Lavellan. “A Dalish clan encountering a Qunari is hardly one of them.”

Hm, perhaps. Solas required a better example. He would retrieve Lavellan’s secrets yet.

An exercise in futility? Who was to say?

“You know more Elvish than most Dalish.” His vocabulary was impressive, even. The Dalish could hold broken conversations, depending on the Clan, but Lavellan used words that Solas thought had been lost to time. Always with a shift to his accent.

At times, it almost… sounded like the accent from the southern Arlathanian region. A hint of the lilt, a faint melodic touch. Home, almost.

“Clan Lavellan is a very old clan, one of the first I believe, and we have amassed a significant amount of lore and knowledge. You’ll find that most in the Clan have an extended Elvish vocabulary.”

Solas could not contest that. He had not seen Clan Lavellan’s repertoire, and it would be impudent to be dismissive of what lore they had collected. Solas had his grievances, but the Dalish managed to keep the language alive, at least.

“Yet there’s an almost imperceptible shift in your accent,” noted Solas, watched for a flicker in Lavellan’s expression, a shift in his attitude, but nothing.

Nothing was telling on its own. Boredom? Or forced nonchalance?

“The Dalish diaspora resulted in regional changes to Elvish,” he replied. “And as you said, it’s almost imperceptible.”

A parry for every strike. Truthful or simply too clever?

Solas wished to run seeking hands over him as if he were a puzzle box with an impossible solution. What would it take for Lavellan to open? Could he ever be opened?

The glint in Lavellan’s eyes radiated clear danger now. The parry would become counters if Solas continued, and though Solas would enjoy his attempts, Lavellan always had an air of unpredictability about him.

Still, Solas pressed forward because he had already been established as a fool. What else was he to do besides act accordingly?

“You fight like no Dalish hunter. Admittedly, most of your forms are based off Dalish styles, but the way you integrate them into battle would be considered unorthodox. You have shaped them for war.”

“I kind of had to? Fighting demons and ancient beings claiming godhood was kind of unprecedented for me.”

No. During their first encounter, Solas had already noted Lavellan’s martial form as odd. “Even in Haven when the Breach was newly formed.”

“And how do you know that I have shaped them for war?” 

And here came the strike.

“I see you and your martial forms,” said Lavellan.

The answer was automatic ― and truthful. “I learned it in―”

“The Fade,” he cut off irritably. Lavellan struck but Solas presented a solid parry. “Everything is conveniently from the Fade with you.”

Such a delight, him. “The Fade houses common and esoteric knowledge alike. One need only know where to look.”

Lavellan stared at him in clear defiance and Solas gravitated towards him. “And you know where to look, do you?”

“I do,” Solas said. 

The superficial distance imposed earlier had lessened and Lavellan’s arm was a solid weight beside his, the marble railing cool even through the thick fabric of the coat and the leather of the gloves.

“Lost the hat?” asked Lavellan. A jarring shift in the conversation but Solas let it pass. Solas could escape traps, but he would prefer not to advance headlong into them. Even if that trap happened to be a Dalish elf with perceptive golden eyes and a penchant for confounding Solas at every turn.

“A Venatori knocked it off my head and a Rage demon set fire to it.” He had been moderately saddened by it.

“Dorian must be pleased.”

“He was. I thought of burning his hair but refrained.”

Lavellan laughed. It was a soft, breathless sound which rippled throughout his body and unwound him, the edges of him less severe for it. “Well I thank you for displaying restraint.”

Solas found himself smiling. Applause from the ballroom turned Solas’ head, the warm glow of chandelier lights spilling across the open door.

“It’s that time of night,” said Lavellan. “Have the stingy Orlesians finally brought out their finest cask?”

“It would appear so.”

The orchestra began another song. Could Solas dare to ask for a dance? Should was the better question. Was this something he was allowed?

Perhaps it was the wine making the choices, or perhaps he had just grown weak against an overwhelming riptide. Solas would take what he could get, what Lavellan would deign to give, but not here. Not Orlesian custom, not Orlesian music. The images of him and Lavellan, dancing in faded Elvhenan’s court, clung tight to his mind. Solas supposed he could indulge.

Solas eased his gloves off and placed them over the railing, heartbeat echoing, before he bowed and offered a hand towards Lavellan whose eyes widened. What thoughts spun within them?

“May I have this dance, Inquisitor Lavellan?”

A breath of wind tousled Lavellan’s hair further, moonlight glinting off the silver ear cuffs and strands of his hair.

Lavellan took his hand, having already removed his gloves earlier so the night had cooled his fingers. Solas stayed still in fear of frightening him off somehow.

“Trying to catch the band while they’re playing?” asked Lavellan.

Solas had something better in mind. He raised his hand and closed the doors with a forceful swathe of wind which put an abrupt end to the sensuous stream of music.

“Okay, we’re off to a suspicious and ominous start,” he said with a hesitant smile and Solas hurriedly amended before he could send the wrong impression.

“You have had enough of Orlais for tonight.” He gently pulled Lavellan closer, expected resistance, yet Lavellan glided close without a second thought and Solas was uncertain what the new, unnamed feeling in his chest was. What was another unknown emotion on top of all the others? “I wish to teach you a dance. A dance from Elvhenan.”

A flash of hesitance. “I make for a poor dance student,” he admitted. “The amount of times I stepped on my instructor’s toes just so I could dance with Florianne properly is astounding.”

A shame Solas could not spectate on those lessons. He could already image Lavellan’s apologetic grimace and the instructor’s professional indifference.

Solas ran through the dances he could teach and struck the dances with complicated footwork off the list. He had no wish to prance about either. Merely to hold Lavellan. Slow and moving. No, the answer was right in front of him. Lavellan already had the foundations for it. 

“I promise it is a simple dance,” he said. “I believe the dagger fighting style you usually employ is derived from this dance so most of it should come naturally to you.” 

“A fighting style stemmed from a ballroom dance?” asked Lavellan.

Solas positioned himself behind Lavellan and, braving it, placed his hands on Lavellan’s hips. “Why do you reason it is called the Water Dance? After all, what is a battle if not another form of dance?”

He instructed Lavellan, focusing on the utilitarian component of the lesson over the feel of Lavellan’s muscles shifting beneath his hand as he moved.

Upon conclusion of the form, Solas turned Lavellan to face him, their proximity momentarily throwing Solas off-kilter. He made to guide Lavellan’s hands to rest on his shoulders, but Lavellan rested his hands there himself. Solas almost smiled. He _did_ say the dance would be intuitive.

“Is this right?” asked Lavellan, discomfited from his uncertainty.

“Yes,” said Solas and eased him into the proper dance in order to placate him. The first few steps were stilted, but once Lavellan had a feel for the rhythm and the movement, he relaxed. There was no need to worry. Solas had meant it when he said it would come naturally. The People still knew the melody of their language and songs and the rhythm of their dances, no matter how faded. It was intrinsic. Even with the artificial barrier of the Veil.

No force, no matter how powerful, could ever remove the music of home.

There was something beautiful about that.

For a moment, his homesickness abated slightly as he danced with Lavellan. The cluster of jagged emotions which had plagued him for the entire night softened at the edges, gave him some semblance of peace.

But Solas could do better than this. He wished to show his language of home to Lavellan, as much as he was able to.

“Excellent,” said Solas, “you have learned the steps.”

Lavellan breathed out a laugh, his uncertainty gone. “I could almost hear the music in my head. Almost. It’s a little abstract.”

 _Then allow me to amend this._ “You did not think I would let you dance to just silence, did you?”

Solas recalled his favourite piece, already assembling the echoes in his head, and called for his magic to answer. Lavellan perked and searched for the sound. He glanced at Solas in question.

In Elvhenan, one courted the object of their affections through dance and displays of magic. Lavellan would not know, of course, but Solas allowed himself another moment of weakness. He flaunted his skill and spun Lavellan, supported him with ease.

“Shall we?” he asked as he pulled Lavellan closer and suppressed a smile at Lavellan’s wordless and wide-eyed nod.

They danced anew and finally, Solas remained grounded and steady, positioned in the eye of Lavellan’s storm. The concession of having Lavellan to himself was the lack of an audience. If they could see what Solas saw… The ease in which Lavellan lost himself to the melody, as if he were simultaneously the harp strings and the player. Lavellan dictated the flow, yet he was dictated by this very flow.

Ah, perhaps Solas was not in the eye of the storm after all. Lavellan was not the centre which the tempest revolved around. He was no storm.

He was an unstoppable force. It did not matter where one stood; centre, side, front, or back. 

Solas’ resistance against that force slipped. Further and further.

He made to grip Lavellan tighter, as if seeking purchase, but Lavellan slipped from his grasp as though a droplet of water slipping down a marble casing.

Lavellan’s sure hands rested on Solas’ hips, his presence palpable, and Solas’ breath faltered.

“May I lead this time?” Lavellan asked, voice by his ear, and Solas chuckled to conceal his scattering thoughts.

“As you wish,” he replied because those were the only words he could muster.

Lavellan turned him and Solas counted to five.

“Was this a common ballroom dance?” Lavellan asked.

“No,” said Solas. “It was only performed during specific occasions.”

“Such as?”

“After victory.” It was true enough. Specifically, it was danced to celebrate the victory of a close friend or lover.

They moved with such harmony that you would have never believed that Lavellan only learned this dance a handful of minutes ago. Lavellan’s enthusiasm got the better of him as he pulled Solas back in with a little too much force. He winced. Solas laughed and took over as per Lavellan’s request.

It was enrapturing, watching Lavellan lose himself to the music. The familiar movements eased some of his heartache, and though this was a dance from Elvhenan, Solas’ mind remained in the present. No nostalgic flashes. He was present, all of him, fully awake.

The harp plucked its slowing melody. Solas placed his hand on the small of Lavellan’s back.

“Let one hand go,” he instructed, as soft as the evening breeze. “Angle your head slightly and reach for the floor. Don’t worry. I have you.”

Lavellan followed, his back arching as Solas dipped him. Once again, he lost his breath.

He was awake.

Lavellan was a solid weight beneath him, captivating, and Solas had been so enraptured that he almost missed the cue to ease him back up. The music evaporated upon its conclusion. Lavellan rested his hands on Solas’ shoulders once more.

Solas was mildly breathless. It was not from the dance.

“Well done,” praised Solas. “Thank you for humouring my request.” _For showing me a fragment of home, if only for a moment._

“Thank you for teaching me,” he said and smiled, but he kept his gaze down. Solas’ buttons must be very interesting indeed if he was staring at them for so long. “Even if I crashed into you a few times.”

“As I said, I will not fault you for enthusiasm.”

Solas expected him to step back now that the dance had ended, but he stayed.

If Lavellan ever wished to leave, he would have to be the one to take a step back because Solas was unwilling to let him go.

Lavellan finally raised his eyes and met Solas’ gaze. But even that simple act seemed difficult for him.

“You have stared down the most vicious of Orlais’ monsters yet you seem to have difficulty meeting my eyes,” said Solas.

His eyes averted once again and Solas bit back a frustrated noise.

“The eyes give many things away. It’s a little easier to hide vulnerabilities when you stare at monsters. And I’ve already— I think you’ve seen me cry more than more people.” Lavellan’s expression pulled in a faint grimace. “That’s… a little embarrassing on my end, I’m sorry.”

Oh Lavellan. Hands always tore at him, desperate and pleading for him to sanctify them, and Lavellan had to keep walking and not allow the hands to pull him down. He carried far too much. And it was Solas who had placed that weight there.

“You are allowed to feel, Mahanon. It is not secession.”

“Tiring, isn’t it? Feeling?” he asked, the exhaustion lining his eyes. He had been sleeping better lately so the shadows beneath his eyes were no longer as pronounced, but there was nothing to be done about the shadows within his eyes.

Solas felt the weight pressing on his own shoulders. “I did not say it wasn’t.”

Lavellan met his eyes once more. Golden and so very tired. Solas’ hands twitched on Lavellan’s hips and he almost raised his hand, wishing to cradle Lavellan’s face and simply hold him. The thought was already halfway to action—

The door slammed open and Solas sighed to himself. Lavellan jumped back, a cold and vacuous presence settling where he once stood.

Sera hollered, “Quisitree!”

Solas shot her an irritated look but she either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“Bull’s got— Horns! Got ‘em stuck in proper,” she said, words slurring, hiccupping. It seemed it _was_ too much to ask or hope for the Inquisition’s good behaviour to continue. “You gotta see!”

Lavellan glanced back at him once Sera left and waved his hand towards the ballroom.

“I should make sure the children are behaving,” he said.

“I guarantee you they are not.”

Lavellan laughed, but a crashing noise came from inside. He grimaced and sent Solas a hesitant look. Hesitant to depart. Solas’ heartache returned though he couldn’t be certain why. He had long stopped being certain of anything when it came to Lavellan.

“Go on,” bid Solas though he wanted Lavellan to do anything but.

Once he had gone, called by Sera’s alarming antics, Solas stood unmoored and alone on the balcony. He passed a hand over his face. Without Lavellan’s presence to distract him, all Solas had left were Lavellan’s words of conviction.

Solas reached into his pocket and retrieved the wooden wolves. It had become a habit to listen to the soothing tones the carvings made. It was calming. Solas dangled the wolves from his fingers and smiled as the breeze swayed them.

_“They’re stronger than you think.”_

All that time and effort that Lavellan had placed into ensuring his plan would succeed...

Gone in a second.

One had to be mad to do such a thing. Mad and foolish.

And Solas was already one of two. The traitorous idea blossomed in his head and he threw all he could at it, all his logic, all his reasons, all the need-to's and have-to's. Did his best to pluck it from the soil.

Too late. It had taken root.

He could not entertain it but… A small concession, perhaps. Solas would retain ownership of the network, but he could return the eluvians which allowed Briala’s people to deliver food and supplies to the alienage elves.

A small concession. What harm could it do?

_You know very well the harm it could do._

The wolves’ wooden notes drifted in the air.

_“They’re stronger than you think.”_

Solas gently closed his hands around the wooden wolves.

“Very well, Felassan and Mahanon,” he murmured. “Prove me wrong.”

Solas pocketed the wolves and set to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: now i will add a pinch of Guilt and Yearning into this pot for some ✨flavour✨  
> Me: *slips and pours all of it*  
> Me: shitshi **tshit—**
> 
> Solas, comparing Lavellan to a sun: oh yea he'd be so bright in Elvhenan, everyone would adore him.  
> Ras, skinny-dipping in the shadows: who should i terrorise in the name of dirthamen today
> 
> Yeah the Elvhen reaaally loved him.


	11. [Varric] Musings on Inquisitor Lavellan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Recommended that you're caught up to Chapter 30]
> 
> If their mysterious Inquisitor is going to leave all these lovely blanks about himself for them, Varric may as well do himself and everyone a favour by filling it in his damn self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Varric is convinced Lavellan is a Disney princess
> 
> This is the elven prince speculation that Leliana mentioned in ch 47 haha

_There was an empire lost to time and tragedy, now only remembered like the face of a dead predecessor ― you knew they had a face but it wasn’t like you knew how the face looked. It had fallen, because all things fall. Even magical empires._

_The empire of the elves._

_Buildings shuddered, stones collapsed, and harried servants ushered an elven prince into an opulent chamber with a decorated bed._

_“I will not retreat while my empire and people die!” he protested._

_The Captain of the Royal Guard clasped a firm hand on his shoulders and looked him in the eye._

_“Your Imperial Highness, our empire has fallen and we will die with it, but if there is a chance to save_ you _, then it is a risk we are willing to take. Please. We will keep this chamber safe until our dying breaths. The spirits will protect it once we expire. Whenever you awake, promise that you will live free of your burdens. Live not as a prince. Live for yourself.”_

_He shook his head, golden eyes pleading. “No, I cannot―”_

_An earthquake shook the foundations and dust rained from the gilded ceiling. The guards and servants erected a shimmering barrier but the prince bared his teeth and fought against the hands pulling him towards his long rest._

_“If I must, I will die with this empire!” he said. “I will die with my people!”_

_But the Captain said, “No,” and laid a hand upon his head._

_The Prince’s vision turned black and his final thoughts were of the people he had failed._

_He walked the Fade and wept for a thousand years. Time passed and blurred. One year atop a century beneath an age._

_Once he awoke, the world was no longer what it once was. His chambers were nothing but crumbled walls overgrown with vine, his bed showered with light peering past the forest canopy, and when he turned his head, he found two pairs of eyes wide with fear and wonder. A look he returned for they were elves like him. Did the empire survive? Did his people persist?_

_They asked him something but he could not understand them. Their language differed._

_“Who are you?” he asked but they ran from him and left him alone._

_The Prince wept in his loneliness and his weeping called the animals of the forest._

_“Why do you weep?” asked the fox._

_“I am alone in this world,” he said._

_“How can we help?” asked the rabbit._

_“You cannot.”_

_“Are you hungry?” asked the birds. “We can bring you fruits and seeds.”_

_And he said, “I hunger to avenge my people.”_

_“Are you cold?” asked the bear. “You can take shelter in my den.”_

_“I am filled with a cold you cannot chase away.”_

_“Are you weary?” asked the wolf. “I can watch over you as you sleep.”_

_“I have slept for long enough.”_

_“Are you in danger?” asked the lion. “I can guard you as you walk.”_

_“No, I have claws and teeth of my own.” He shook his head, the sunlight brilliant against his snowy hair. “But thank you for your kind offers. Tell me, what is this world like?”_

_And they told him of the different races occupying the realm. Of the humans and their empires and kingdoms, of the dwarves in the deep, the darkspawn, the dragons, and finally, the elves. And this foreign land frightened and saddened the Prince so. He knew nothing of it. It seemed such a vast place._

_That was how the Dalish found him: surrounded by the animals, sunlit in the glen, and they knew him to be their ancestor._

_The Dalish took him in and he learned the ways of that world, learned their language, and he taught them in return. He travelled with that clan for a long time until one fateful day, Divine Justivina V announced for a peace talk between the Templars and the Mages. He volunteered to go and spy on the event. An attempt to keep what was remaining of his people safe._

_Thus began the events that would once again shake the world._

Varric ended the tale with a flourish. “And that’s the deep, mysterious past of our gleaming, illustrious leader.”

“He’s an ancient elven prince who can talk to animals?” asked Dorian with a raised brow.

“I’ve heard worse,” said Blackwall.

“Did the ancient elves even have princes?” asked Dorian.

“Uh,” said Varric. “Artistic license?”

Iron Bull grunted. “Hang on, that doesn’t make sense.”

“I agree,” said Cassandra. “He mentioned having a sister. How does that fit in with your tale?”

“Maybe she was the princess who somehow managed to escape as well and they reunited in Clan Lavellan,” said Varric.

“That’s too much of a coincidence,” griped Dorian. Critics everywhere.

“Stranger things have happened.”

The Great Hall glowed warm from the braziers and fireplace and lit chandeliers and gaiety of conversations shared over the long dinner table. Once more, the Inquisitor was absent. Off running about with his never-ending duties. Varric was pretty sure it was Sera’s turn tonight to wheedle him and remind him that food was very much a thing he needed, ancient elven prince or not. Wherever she was. 

Maybe they shouldn’t have given Sera that much of a responsibility. She and the Inquisitor would just distract each other. Whose idea was this again?

Oh. Right. Varric's.

His eye latched onto Solas who was leaving the rotunda. Now there was the elven expert! He stood and waved his hand. 

“Chuckles!” he called out and Solas stared at them as if contemplating whether to flee or entertain them. He chose to entertain them. Varric grinned. 

“Good evening,” greeted Solas to the group. 

Varric pulled out the vacant seat next to him and patted it. “Sit, sit, we have a question.”

“Does the question involve Sera?”

“No.”

“Does it involve Bull?” 

“Hey!” Bull complained.

“Actually,” said Varric, “it’s about ancient elven things.”

Solas tentatively sat. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Varric has a conspiracy theory,” huffed Dorian, “that the Inquisitor is secretly some ancient elven prince who can commune with animals. And I say he isn’t nearly haughty enough to be royalty. Or nobility for that matter.”

“Hey, we have some nice nobility around,” said Varric. 

“Lady Josephine,” said Blackwall with a sagely nod.

“The Inquisitor,” Varric pushed again. 

Dorian turned to Solas. “Did the ancient elves even have princes? This is very important, Solas. I have ten sovereigns on the line here.”

"That is..." He paused, lips thinning. "A complicated question."

"How so?"

"Elvhenan was ruled by a collective," said Solas. "And they were immortal. As such, there was no such thing as hereditary succession."

"The elven gods, you mean?" asked Dorian.

His gaze hardened. "Yes. Gods."

"There could still be princes or princesses," argued Cassandra. "Could there not?"

Solas smiled wryly. "You underestimate the effects of immortality on ambition, Seeker. Do you truly believe a prince or princess would be content to remain as one for the rest of time?"

"I suppose not," she said.

"So they were all just leaders?" asked Varric.

"Yes," said Solas. "They would all have their respective domains. I presume."

"See?" Dorian crowed. "Your theory isn't sound. He's no prince."

"Hey now, Chuckles didn't say that," said Varric. "Maybe not a prince but something that's an equal position."

Bull hummed. "Dalish told me two of their gods were just a bit more important than the rest. I didn't catch their name though."

"Mythal and Elgar'nan," said Solas, something hard in his tone, and Varric frowned. 

"Yeah!" said Bull. "That's it. See, if they were the most important ones, they'd be like the king and queen."

"And the rest of the gods would be the princes and princesses?" asked Solas. "Do you realise what you have just implied then?"

The table fell quiet.

"Uh," said Bull intelligently. "Huh."

Varric's head fired with the new possibility and he leaned forward. "Is our dear Inquisitor actually an elven god then?" It must be so awkward being the Herald of Andraste then.

"Now you're just blowing a ridiculously unsound theory out of proportion," said Dorian.

"I will have to agree," said Solas. He was usually composed, or good at pretending he was, but he looked mildly uncomfortable now. "He cannot be an elven god."

"So quick to dismiss, Chuckles."

"Am I?" he challenged. "It is implausible. According to their lore, their gods have been locked away."

"Wasn't there one who wasn't locked away?" asked Bull. 

Dorian elbowed Bull. "Stop encouraging him."

Varric opened his mouth.

"No," Solas cut in. "This remaining god you speak of is a figure that the Dalish revile."

"The Dread Wolf," came the new, lilting voice. Leliana leaned against the back of Varric's chair, smiling. Solas scowled at her. "Is it so implausible? Do you not recall the mask he wore during Satinalia?" Leliana smiled wider at their realisation. "Perhaps he is sending a message."

"Then there's a hole in Varric's story," said Dorian. "The Dalish wouldn't have accepted him if they knew he _was_ the Dread Wolf."

"If," Leliana emphasised. "After all, they paint the Dread Wolf as the god of tricks."

"He always plays tricks with Sera," added Blackwall and Dorian glared at him.

"Whose side are you on?" Dorian asked.

"He is not the Dread Wolf," Solas said again. "There is no solid, unshakeable proof that he is."

"There is no proof that he is not," Leliana returned. "He is a rather mysterious figure, wouldn't you say? Anybody can lie about their past. Whether outright or by omission."

Blackwall drank. Solas kept his gaze level at Leliana.

"He is already the Herald of Andraste," said Solas, the hardness in his tone bleeding into his gaze. "Do not place another mantle of divinity upon his shoulders. It is dark, it is heavy, and it is isolating. Theorise and fabricate stories to your heart's content but ensure it remains that. A story." He stood and everyone blinked up at him in surprise. "Good evening." And he was gone, striding out of the Great Hall and into the darkness of the night.

Blackwall took another sip and grimaced into his cup. Bull cleared his throat. 

Varric scratched the back of his head, guilt slightly gnawing at his stomach. "Ah, shit."

Cassandra sighed. "Solas is right. It is not proper for us to speculate about the Inquisitor like this behind his back."

"Maybe not," Varric conceded, "but you have to admit, Glowy's got a story." And that story was a book in a dark and shadowy corner of the shelf. It was none of their business, but you still couldn't help but be curious about it. 

Varric had presented it light-heartedly, but he had no other explanation for the look in Lavellan's eyes. He had been around people who had lived too long. Had seen the look in their eyes. Lavellan had that look. Far too ancient. Varric had a flair for the dramatic, and yeah his mouth got away from him sometimes, but whatever Lavellan's story was, Varric was a little scared to open the book no matter the curiosity. So what else do you do? Make up something else. 

Would it be true or not?

Either way, the implications were frightening because reality was crazier and Lavellan was already a walking plot twist.

"Listen, I'm going to stick to my theory because I have nothing else," said Varric. "Nothing else adds up."

"Or there is nothing to be found," said Cassandra. "Must there always be something?"

"There is always something," said Leliana.

Truth was stranger than fiction. Sometimes, the joy wasn't in figuring out what the truth _was_ but in thinking about what it _could_ be. Maybe people like Leliana and Cassandra wanted to get to the heart of the matter, but Varric was content to see how you could dress it up.

Or maybe the truth was terrifying and he was running from it!

Who knew? Not him, and he was just fine with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Varric, the truth is crazier than you know. 
> 
> Varric: i've connected the dots  
> Solas: u didn't connect shit  
> Varric: i've connected them
> 
> Yes the animals that Lavellan was talking to in Varric's story corresponds with some of the animals Lavellan carved for the inner circle haha.
> 
> This has been sitting in my drafts for ages and I always told myself I'll polish it up but I never did until now wahaha. Once again, getting into a character's head is hard and I've never written Varric before so this was an interesting experiment.


	12. [Inner Circle] Language of the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Recommended read up to ch 30]
> 
> When the companions first realised that Solas and/or Lavellan were in love (second timeline). POVS: Cassandra, Varric, and Cole.
> 
> [Word count: 2468]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said companions, i only meant 3 hahhaHA sorry

**{Cassandra}**

She wasn’t the most astute of people when it came to determining thoughts or intentions. Not like Leliana or Varric or the Iron Bull or the Inquisitor. Cassandra knew that. She was straightforward, and she expected that others would be, too.

Of course, that wasn’t how it worked. People spoke in hidden ways, in ways that did not involve words.

She at least knew what it was to speak through action. You ball your fists; you’re angry. You laugh; you’re merry. You give someone a present; you cherish them.

People could pretend, of course, but unlike with words, she was perceptive when it came to false pretences. She was still a Seeker. This was how she sought her truths.

Solas was one such person whose actions spoke for himself. She suspected that he sometimes wished that it were not so. That he wished for his actions to match his politely detached words, but she was coming to realise that Solas was too passionate to detach completely.

Not to say that he wasn’t verbose when he wished to be, but he had a way of talking without saying anything. Somewhat like Varric, yet less irritating because Solas spoke soft and gentle and was content to be quiet most times. If he talked extensively with you, he either enjoyed your company enough to converse, or he loathed your existence and would very much like to make that known to you.

And while he and Cassandra shared easier conversations now, he was still a large mystery and she’d prefer not to try naming his thoughts or actions yet.

Especially not when it came to Lavellan.

Those two fought harder than an Orlesian and Fereldan, yet simultaneously worked better than a sword and shield. She couldn’t quite place how they felt about each other.

The moment of clarity came to her during Haven’s attack. For Solas, at least.

It was difficult to tear herself away from Lavellan’s side, to leave him to face the horrors which awaited beyond the horizon. They all looked back at him as they fled.

Except Solas.

Something in her burned. Did he not care? Was he not worried? But she placed such questions away, focused on making their way back to the others. Once they’d caught up with the rest, Cullen sent the signal flare with a grim light in his eyes.

A few seconds elapsed.

Then came the unmistakeable roar of rushing snow. Cassandra’s heart dropped. Everyone stopped, looked back at Haven, their faces reflecting the sinking feeling in her stomach. Could Lavellan escape that?

“Keep moving,” said Solas, voice hard.

Cassandra gritted her teeth. “Are you not at all worried?” she snapped.

Solas looked at her, the rest of his expression set and careful, composed.

Yet his eyes were alight with devastation.

“Keep,” he said, “moving.”

They made the dreaded trek through the Frostbacks. Leliana and Cullen had the idea of leaving campfires as breadcrumbs for Lavellan to follow.

Once they were far enough and couldn’t keep going, they set up camp. Solas spun on his heel and walked away.

“Solas?” asked Bull. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to use magic to find him.”

Bull’s voice softened. “You might not find anything.”

Solas’ shoulders tensed. “I may not if the rest of you do not immediately organise for a search party.”

He left. Cassandra took a fortifying breath and went about arranging said search party with Commander Cullen and Leliana because it was all she could do. She would go with the scouts, but she was needed here.

For every minute that the scouts didn’t return, her tension mounted.

She shot tense glances at the overlook that Solas had retreated to, hoping against hope. Something in her knew that there was no way somebody could survive that avalanche.

But could she be faulted for wishing for a miracle?

At the peak of her agitation, she made her way towards Solas. Perhaps he had some luck?

He was sitting by the overlook, head bowed. The wave of his magic passed through her and she almost jumped back in surprise. That was… an intense concentration and magnitude. She’d met very few mages who could boast such a presence. Had he been hiding that all this time?

His head jolted up and she did jump that time.

Solas raced to stand, kicking up snow in his haste and turned, vivid fatigue lining his eyes. He staggered. She caught and righted him as he clutched at her arm.

“He’s here,” he said, voice weak. Hope clogged her throat.

“Truly?” she asked.

“He collapsed. He needs— He needs us. _Please_. The pass. He’s—” His breaths rattled. Mana drain.

“You need to rest,” she said. “We will fetch him.”

Cassandra let him lean on her for support and they staggered back to camp. She offered him a few bottles of lyrium potions and scowled at the face he pulled.

“I know you do not enjoy them, but we may still need your help if Mahanon needs healing.”

That at least got him to drink.

“Rest,” she bid again. “We will be back with him.”

Solas barely had the energy left to nod.

They found Lavellan collapsed at the mouth of the pass and Cassandra couldn’t feel the cold, warmed by either hope or apprehension or both. They offloaded him onto a stretcher and carried him back to camp.

He looked dead.

But no, he couldn’t be. They had come this far.

“Live,” she hissed.

Once the healers fussed over him, things soured further.

Lavellan thrashed in his sleep and screamed. No magic could soothe him. If anything, it made things worse.

“What is happening?” Cassandra demanded.

“We don’t know!” said Grand Enchanter Fiona. “He refuses to accept our magic.”

“Step aside,” came Vivienne’s imperious voice. “Hold him down.”

They did so, but Lavellan held a surprising amount of strength. Adrenaline, Cassandra realised. Vivienne poured her magic into him, but he convulsed, roaring words in his ancient tongue. His eyes were half-open, only revealing the whites of his eyes. He looked almost possessed.

Vivienne gritted her teeth.

“Get Solas,” she said, tone hard. “I do not know what we are dealing with.”

Cassandra rushed to where she had last left him and found him asleep. She apologised in her head as she shook him awake.

Solas came to, gripped by mild disorientation.

“It’s Mahanon,” she said, urgent. The mild disorientation vanished and he was already up on his feet, grabbing his staff.

“What happened?” he asked.

She had no need to explain. They heard the screaming as they neared Lavellan’s tent.

Vivienne glanced up at their arrival.

“He is not accepting our healing magic,” she said. “I suspect he is yelling in your language.”

They watched Lavellan thrashing against the others holding him down.

“He is,” said Solas. “Let him go, you are distressing him.”

The others did so and Solas knelt by his side, Lavellan’s thrashings subduing slightly. Solas gently brushed away the sweat-matted strands of hair sticking to Lavellan’s forehead and whispered something in what Cassandra assumed was Elvish. Miraculously, or perhaps not so, Lavellan’s struggles eased.

They collectively relaxed.

“I will try to heal him,” said Solas.

“Are you certain?” Cassandra asked.

“I have recovered sufficient mana. It should be alright.”

 _That was fast,_ she didn’t say. “Do you require assistance?” she asked instead.

Solas shook his head. “Later, perhaps. I will call for someone if I have need of it.”

The others filed out with some hesitance, Vivienne casting Solas and Lavellan a final, scrutinising look over her shoulder as she left. Cassandra lingered.

“He will be alright,” Solas assured, the glow of his magic bathing them with a soft light. “He will live.”

“You’ve been pushing yourself tonight.”

“Him more than most,” he said, voice soft. “This is the least I could do.”

“If either of you are in need, do not hesitate to call for me.”

Solas smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”

Cassandra left Solas to it and discussed the Inquisition’s situation with the advisors if only to keep her mind preoccupied, though she cast the tent worried looks every now and again.

When she returned an hour or so later with extra blankets for Lavellan, Solas was asleep on a chair beside him, head bowed. He hadn’t left Lavellan’s side.

Solas’ hand rested beside Lavellan’s, their smallest fingers loosely linked.

Cassandra smiled.

* * *

**{Varric}**

People were funny. They did things that made no sense. They did things that contradicted with what they thought. They said things that they didn’t mean.

When Varric wrote, things would be planned out. This would lead to this, would connect to this, would recall to this, would foreshadow this. This character would do this so this other thing could happen.

And you could do everything in your power to make characters feel real, you could insert some nonsensical crap to really model the bullshit of real life, but you could never, _never,_ get it completely right. Because if you tried, it’d sound inconsistent or riddled with plot holes or whatever other shit that critics would jump on your ass about.

But that’s the thing. Real life had plot holes. All the damn time. Characters were inconsistent, nobody did what they were supposed to, things that weren’t planned happened.

If he were to write the truth about half of the shit happening around him, they’d call him a fraud. It would be bad for business. Writing was business, that was the truth.

Good thing Varric didn’t care much.

Don’t get him wrong, he would still embellish things to hell and back but this…

He watched Solas and Lavellan ripping into each other again.

This, he couldn’t embellish. This was raw. Maybe too raw. Maybe something that shouldn’t be shared.

But still, he wrote.

He couldn’t help it. There was too much emotion, too much meaning between them that he wasn’t privy to. The best he could do was put action to words.

Varric wrote of how Solas and Lavellan would become subdued after another of their infamous fights.

> _The apostate hung his head, the Inquisitor stared at the stars. Looked in opposite directions. Bring them back to back, and it was like a diagonal mirror was separating them._

Wrote of how Solas would brighten when Lavellan was simply present.

> _He smiled when he spoke of the Fade, when he spoke of the arts. He smiled because he was simply glad that those things existed. And when the Inquisitor walked into the room, he smiled the same way with his eyes as if he was afraid that if he smiled with his lips, it would declare too much._

Wrote of how Lavellan would seem at ease around Solas (when they weren’t haranguing each other).

> _The world was heavy on his shoulders. When he walked, you could almost feel the mantle made of bones that he carried, could almost feel how they were sewn onto his shoulders with sutures made of others’ hope. But he’d see the apostate, and the mantle would fall. He almost looked as if he was flying._

Wrote their names together because they were the bookends of a sentence.

> _Solas and Lavellan. Lavellan and Solas._

Varric couldn’t tell you the exact moment that he knew.

But whenever he'd catch Lavellan pulling a blanket over Solas because he'd accidentally fallen asleep in the rotunda or catch Solas filling his field journal with sketches of Lavellan, Varric became surer that there was no exact moment anyway. Not with these two. You could flip back through the pages and pick a scene and go, “This one?”

And the answer would always be yes and no.

* * *

**{Cole}**

Deep and blue. But also, red.

Cole had always known.

There was so much hurt. Maybe once, Cole would have tried to get rid of it all — he wanted to, he still did — but he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Caught in the cold cracks of a mirror. Too deep. Part of them, now.

They didn’t see. Too scared. Cole couldn’t take that, too.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he wanted to say. “He’ll understand.”

But Lavellan was golden ashes, Solas was liquid lightning, and their sorrows weren’t softened enough to meet. So all Cole could do was watch. Listen. Help. Find what breathed in the spaces of the words that they said to confuse, to hide, to push away. But Cole didn’t listen to the words. They didn’t speak through words (but they should. This wasn’t the Fade. They needed words) so Cole listened to their self.

_Bright, brilliant, beautiful_

Solas’ thoughts were folds shifting upon folds. It was hard to wander in his head and listen.

_Bitter, burning, breaking_

All of that behind a lock with no key, but the lock was rusting. Snippets and wisps of those thoughts sometimes escaped and fluttered through the keyhole. Cole heard them occasionally. The thoughts that left the keyhole had different shapes. Different lights.

Solas’ sorrow was relentless. It was twisted, twitching, and twining. His anger was a crooked blade; his joy was a thin and frayed thread.

When Solas thought of Lavellan, his mind was pulsing. A peak, a retreat. The dance of tongues of fire. Warm one minute, blistering the next.

_Soft, searing, safe_

Lavellan was a coat of bright light and a core of dark fog. It was hard to feel how he did because it was too much.

_Spill, slit, slay_

Couldn’t look directly. Cole had to put his hand up against the light and read from the shadows it cast on the ground. But he sometimes braved the light and journeyed further. Into darkness. Darkness that would coax him even deeper, clogging his lungs with whispers that held their own language.

And Cole could _feel_ when he listened to those whispers. Rage had built a city here once, they said. Now the city was a mountain of bones picked clean by numbness.

When Lavellan thought of Solas, his thoughts were weavings of past and present. It didn’t finish into a completed work. It wove, and it wove, and it wove.

 _Ar lath_ , a thought would sometimes echo. Cole couldn’t tell who it came from. It didn’t matter.

 _Ar lath,_ a thought would echo, and a heart would ache. Cole couldn’t tell whose.

It didn’t matter either.

Cole watched Solas paint his confessions on the walls. Cole watched Lavellan carve his message from wood.

“Tell him,” Cole would say.

“No,” the answer would be.

And Cole would accept the answer and leave. One day, the folds would unfold, and the lock would unlock. One day, the light and shadow would bleed together and balance to reveal the true shape of its form. One day, their sorrows would be soft enough to meet.

One day, their innermost thoughts would leave their lips.

_Heart, healing, home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if I'll do the other companions hff-- Depends on inspiration/motivation. 
> 
> (Cole's bit was so hard to write but I have to admit, I'm soft for it)
> 
> I'm writing about writing with Varric. Write-ception.
> 
> Also, the progression of action (Cass) to words (Varric) to thought (Cole) hahaaha I overthink this shit too much.


	13. [Ellana] Encounters with the Dread Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Recommended: caught up to ch 58]
> 
> “Why does the Dread Wolf frighten you?”
> 
> “Because he’ll give you what you want but take everything else away.”
> 
> [Word count: 4150]

_“Mae?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“Why does Hanon like stories of the Dread Wolf so much when he’s so scary?”_

_Mamae paused her whittling and looked at her. “Why does the Dread Wolf frighten you?”_

_“Because he’ll give you what you want but take everything else away.”_

* * *

Ellana opened her eyes, facing the familiar shifting paths of the Fade.

The shadow of a wolf slunk away in her periphery. She willed a bow into being and trailed after the wolf, gripped her bow tight. If she looked directly at the wolf, it would vanish, so she would always keep it in the corner of her vision instead. She’d learned this after so many nights of chasing after it.

The Fade changed around her, but she kept her focus. They moved through a forest, to a field, to a craggy wasteland, to a crumbling ruin. But still, she stayed right on its tail.

At some point, it grew aware of her presence.

And the wolf stopped moving.

They met at the edge of a cliff. The wolf was impossibly huge yet diminished all at once, as translucent as smoke yet as viscid as treacle.

Six eyes flared crimson. It bared its teeth.

“Why do you follow me?” it asked.

“For answers,” she said and drew the bow.

The wolf stared, tilted its head. “I have no quarrel with you, Ellana. Leave me be to roam in peace.”

She tried to pin its voice down, but the Fade was obscuring it.

“You know my name,” she said. “How?”

“I am everywhere, da’len.”

“We’ve met, haven’t we?”

“You are here for your brother.”

She loosed the arrow. It crumbled into ashes before it could reach the wolf.

“This is not a game you will want to play,” it said.

“Good. Because this isn’t a game.” She nocked another arrow. It crumbled in her hands. She flicked her free hand and shot a blast of magic instead, undeterred.

The blast lost velocity and fell, shattered upon contact with the ground.

“I will warn you only once,” said the wolf. “In good faith. I will not be the villain you are seeking.”

Ellana gritted her teeth. “How long will the good faith last?”

Something in its eyes saddened.

“Wake up.”

Ellana woke up with the bitter taste of ashes in her mouth.

* * *

Hanon had always loved the stories about the Dread Wolf.

It was a cruel twist of fate that Hanon would fall for him too.

And sure, he technically never told her that he and Fen’Harel had been lovers, but she wasn’t an idiot. She also didn’t need him to tell her who Fen’Harel was. The moment the man himself came walking towards them, the wolf jawbone hanging from his neck, coupled with the fond light in Hanon’s eyes and tone of voice, Ellana had known.

And despite Hanon’s grievances, she knew that he had some lingering respect for how well Solas had blended in. How well he had used the truth of himself to become his deception. Of course. Hanon had always valued cunning. It was why he’d enjoyed the tales of Fen’Harel, after all.

But it was the same as before: Hanon enjoyed Fen’Harel’s cunning, Ellana feared it.

It had been so simple for Solas to slip in undetected. To hide in plain sight. If she hadn’t known to look for the clues, she would have missed them altogether.

She didn’t know how much of Solas the Humble Apostate was an act.

And she didn’t know whether the equally fond looks Solas would give Hanon were a source of worry or relief.

Because the Dread Wolf had loved, and the Dread Wolf had still sacrificed that love.

What did those fond looks equate to, in the end?

What would they amount to?

_“Because he’ll give you what you want but take everything else away.”_

He’d loved Hanon back, and he’d still taken the world away.

* * *

_"Why do you love these stories so much?” she asked._

_Hanon whittled away at a piece of wood. “I think they’re clever.”_

_She secured the back of her legs around the tree branch she was sitting on and swung back, dangling upside down, hair swaying._

_“He’s mean,” she said._

_“I never said he wasn’t.”_

_“So why do you still like him?”_

_He huffed. “I don’t like him, but I like how he’s good with words. He never lies, did you notice?”_

_She opened her mouth because of course he lied. He always lied. But she paused, cycling back through all the stories about Fen’Harel that she’d bothered to pay attention to._

_He was right._

_“He gives them exactly what they want,” said Hanon. “He never goes against the request; he never promises anything he can’t keep.”_

_And that was scary, wasn’t it? That he’d make you think you had everything, that you’d gotten what you’d wanted, but then you’d lose more than what you’d gained. That was how Fen’Harel had tricked the gods._

_But Hanon didn’t look scared._

_He looked like he’d aim an arrow at the Dread Wolf’s face and laugh._

_“One day,” said Hanon, “maybe I can use my words too. But I won’t use them to trick people.”_

_“What will you use them for?”_

_He raised the wood he’d been whittling, staring at the point he’d sharpened the end into._

_“I’m going to use them to protect.”_

* * *

“Fletching!” cried Varric and Ellana started, almost dropping the plate in her hands.

“Like the arrow?” asked Ellana, sitting with some of the inner circle to have lunch. “The feathers at the ends? What about them?”

The Great Hall was crowded today. Apparently Skyhold received more guests whenever Hanon was here. Being his sister kept garnering her some looks, especially considering their close resemblance, and she envied him a little for being able to carry on despite the heavy eyes on him.

But the envy would never last long, if at all. She knew the toll it took on him.

Varric pointed his fork at her. “You’re Fletching.”

“What?”

Dorian sighed. “It’s his nickname for you. I get Sparkler.”

“Because he makes sparks and sparkles,” said Varric solemnly.

Bull raised his hand. “Tiny.”

“Self-explanatory,” said Varric.

“Ruffles,” said Josephine.

Ellana frowned. “Why—” She glanced at the ruffles on Josephine’s sleeve. “Ah, got it.”

“The Inquisitor is Glowy,” said Varric.

“Because his hand glows,” snorted Dorian.

“Well there’s that but he _does_ glow. More figuratively.” Varric leaned back in his seat, waving his fork in thought as though it were a conductor’s baton. “He just… glows. Something about his presence. Like you’re about to get pulled into some ridiculous shit and you’re just going to nod and say, ‘Alright, may as well.’ Andraste knows he’s got me sucked into this weird campaign.”

“Has he always been like that?” Dorian asked Ellana.

Ellana played with the kernels of corn on her plate. “I guess? Then again, we were children. We always got into all sorts of crap. He’d suggest something, I’d go with it and help him plan, and stop him from getting too excited.”

Varric pointed his fork at her again and accidentally flung a scrap of food at Dorian.

“You’re disgusting,” said Dorian.

Varric ignored him. “Which is why you’re Fletching. Fletch, for short.”

Ellana raised a brow. “Explain?”

“You’re good at reminding people what’s important,” he said. “You help the arrow fly straight.”

“Who’s the arrow in this equation?”

“People, Fletch. People.” Varric smiled warmly. “I’m glad Glowy’s got you. I think he could really use the support.”

“We try,” sighed Dorian. “But he doesn’t tell us a lot of things.”

“Well,” said Ellana, “that part of him hasn’t changed at least.”

* * *

Hanon had suggested that she learn from Solas.

 _“Why in Elgar’nan’s great blazing backside would I do that?”_ Ellana had wanted to ask, but she’d held her tongue because Dread Wolf or not, Solas _would_ be able to give her the information she needed.

Keeper Deshanna would have a heart attack if she heard who Ellana’s mentor would be.

And she’d outright keel on the spot if she found out what Hanon’s been up to with that guy. He really took the saying “dancing with the wolves”[1] and ran off with it.

Ellana ignored the bed in the room they’d given her in Skyhold and slipped into her bedroll on the floor instead. The bed was too soft and she hated it. At least it was good for dumping books on.

She slipped into her dreams and wandered the Fade’s shifting paths once more.

Solas would be here to begin their first lesson soon.

A bow materialised in her hand and an eternally full quiver rested against her back. She hadn’t meant to do that, but she was apparently more apprehensive than she’d realised. It couldn’t be helped.

Ellana took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down, and her bid for calm shaped the Fade around her. The scenery changed from the shifting paths to a clearing within a forest, Clan Lavellan’s aravel sails visible past the trees. She smiled at the familiar clearing. She hadn’t been here in a while. The clan hadn’t even spent that long within this forest, but Ellana would always remember the few nights their mother had decided the three of them could settle themselves here to sleep.

There was a rustle behind her, the snap of a twig.

She gripped the bow tight but forced her shoulders to relax.

“This seems familiar,” said Solas.

Ellana turned to frown at him. “Have you been here before?”

Solas stared at a spot in the clearing, tilted his head, and a pile of fur and blankets materialised at the spot he’d been looking at. Ellana froze. That was… where they’d slept.

“How do you know that?” asked Ellana, wary.

“Did he not tell you about the time we’d journeyed physically into the Fade?”

She massaged her temples and scrunched her face, attempting to remember. “He said you two met a spirit of Memory. He just said he shared a memory of our mother.”

“It was here.” Solas gazed across the clearing with a gentle light in his eyes. “Your mother sang her lullaby.”

“Oh,” she murmured, a whisper of sadness washing over her. It was a dull hurt now, but sometimes the echo of melancholy would still touch her.

“He hums the lullaby, occasionally.” His voice had gone soft. “It is a source of comfort.”

“Mae always sang it. Every night. When she died, Hanon started singing it to me instead because I couldn’t fall asleep otherwise. He’s always done his best to look after me.”

“You must love him dearly.”

Ellana gave Solas a grim smile. “I do. And I’m looking after him, too. I’ll defend him from anything. Darkspawn, demons, even Fen’Harel himself.”

Solas didn’t react, only smiled back and said, “I am glad to hear it.”

* * *

During nights where she wouldn’t have lessons with Solas, Ellana would hunt the Dread Wolf. Fen’Harel once again tried to throw her off his trail, but she got the impression that he wasn’t trying very hard. At times, it almost felt like he was toying with her.

Like he was playing a game.

Tonight, she followed him to a river where the water pulled her down. She could still breathe in the water so there was no danger, but it was just _irritating_. After fighting against the currents and strange gravity, she finally made it back to shore thinking she’d lost track of him, but _no_. There the smug bastard was, staring down at her from a hilltop.

The next night, he led her through a corridor filled with mirrors where copies of him darted across.

Ellana smashed the mirrors all at once.

Fen’Harel’s chuckle echoed around her. “Not interested in my puzzle?” he asked.

“Never had the patience for them.” She nocked an arrow and waited.

“Interesting that you prefer a bow and arrow in your dreams.”

“More satisfying to see your arrow sink in its target.” She stalked the dim corridor, stepping over the shards. “More solid.”

The shards shuddered, floated up and hovered around her. Scattered reflections of the Dread Wolf flitted from shard to shard.

“Break them if you wish,” he said. “You will only fracture your vision of me further.”

She willed the shards to reform the mirrors, but they resisted. Fen’Harel had too much control over the Fade here.

He was getting stronger.

“Find me if you can, da’len,” he taunted.

Six, fragmented eyes stared at her from all angles.

She clenched her jaw in defiance and focused on his presence, discerned the thread of it amid all the magical noise from the Fade, and slowly brought it into clarity.

The presence led to the mirrors.

He was no reflection; he was _inside_ the mirrors.

Ellana touched a shard and changed her belief of it, thought of it as a window rather than a mirror.

Her fingers passed through. She made the shard expand, large enough that she could step into it.

The space she entered was bright. She looked back at the window, saw the corridor she’d been in. Ellana turned back around and found the Dread Wolf sitting across her.

“Well done,” he said and woke her up.

Ellana’s eyes opened, staring at the ceiling of her room. She let out a frustrated scream.

It had been a _lesson_! The absolute bastard—!

* * *

On the night Hanon had uncovered some of his memories at Dirthamen’s temple, Ellana sought the boundary of his dreams within the Fade and stood guard, trusty bow in hand.

When people dreamt, they made a small space for themselves within the Fade. For most people, the boundary of this dreaming space was difficult for spirits and demons alike to cross. Mages had weaker boundaries. Dreamers had none. Boundaries also tended to exude a certain feeling, depending on what the person was dreaming of. It could also attract certain types of spirits or demons.

Or the other way around. If spirits or demons were crowding at the boundaries, they could influence the dream. That was the extent of their impact though.

Hanon had always had a weak boundary despite not being a mage, but the boundary would always exude a steadfast and almost stubborn feeling. Ellana had found that most spirits didn’t tend to bother with boundaries like that. She’d always found that safe and comforting. When she was younger, she’d linger around the boundaries of his dreams if she ever felt unsafe from the denizens of the Fade.

His boundary was even weaker now, fluctuating dangerously. She wasn’t sure whether that was the result of the Anchor or his nature as a spirit of Change. Possibly both. She suspected it had grown even weaker from the Anchor, but the fluctuation was due to his spirit self.

Tonight, his boundary exuded a powerful warning, a sense of threat.

Basically, it yelled, “Touch me and die.”

Obviously, no sane spirit or demon would mess with that, no matter how weak the boundary.

Fen’Harel didn’t count as sane.

He appeared. Of course he did.

Ellana drew her bow and aimed the arrow at him.

“Let me through,” he said.

“You will not touch him.”

He growled and lowered his head, hackles raising. The air trembled.

“I am worried about his safety,” said Fen’Harel. “Dark and ancient forces linger where you’ve slept. Do you not feel his boundary spilling with it?”

Ellana faltered, looking at the boundary behind her. The boundaries weren’t a very visible thing — only appearing as a silvery sheen in the air. If you weren’t aware of its presence, you’d pass right through it and appear on the other side.

“I will not touch him,” said Fen’Harel. “He will not even know I am there. I merely wish to investigate. I will only interfere if he is in danger.”

She pursed her lips. “He doesn’t want anyone in there. That’s what I’m feeling.”

“Are you certain it is he who wants that? That it is no undue influence?”

“My brother’s boundaries are stubborn. Whatever he lets in, he wanted to let in.”

“If a Desire demon tempts you with a deal, do you not want for it, too?” he asked. “What one wants is not always what one needs. You have all awakened something that has lain dormant for thousands of years.”

Ellana opened her mouth, but the boundary suddenly sent out a pulse of sorrow. It stuck to her skin, dripping and thick.

She gasped, bowled over by the intensity of it.

Fen’Harel’s ears pricked. “Step away.”

Well, she didn’t need to be told twice. She slackened the bow and returned the arrow to her quiver, and backed away from the boundary.

She clutched at her chest, tears springing to her eyes.

“What—?” she asked and blinked it away. 

Fen’Harel crouched, looking ready to pounce. “Stay here.”

She was about to call out for him to wait, but the air shuddered.

And the boundary vanished. Its overwhelming presence lifted, and the sorrow that had coated her evaporated.

Ellana and Fen’Harel stared at where the boundary had been.

“He… woke up,” said Ellana. That was a little anticlimactic.

Fen’Harel relaxed from his crouching position and said nothing, but his eyes squinted.

The silence dragged.

The air around Fen’Harel changed. Ellana tensed, backing away, nocking an arrow once again, wary eyes trained on him.

He turned his head, took a few steps forward towards her.

“No more games,” he said, voice growing dark.

Fear curled within her and she suddenly remembered all the tales where Fen’Harel had been brutal.

“I was never playing,” she said and drew the bow. Fen’Harel stopped his advance.

He tilted his head. “I had assumed your hostility stemmed from the Dalish’s wariness of me, but perhaps… you have a personal stake in this.”

“I’m protecting my brother,” she said. “He may enjoy your _games_ as you’ve put it, but he is no plaything.”

Fen’Harel flinched. It was a minute action, barely noticeable, but she was dead certain it was a flinch.

“I have never considered him a plaything. He is his own person, and any _games_ I play are not at his expense.”

“Then treat him like it,” she spat. “Trust that he knows what he’s doing.”

He bared his teeth, hackles raising once again. “This is not a matter of trust; he could be in danger! He could be interfering with something that he has underestimated. And he is not in the habit of asking for help.”

She bit her inner cheek.

“You know I am right,” said Fen’Harel. “I know you distrust me, but I have no ill intentions towards Mahanon.”

“But you have intentions?”

He paused, ceased snarling.

“My tolerance for bullshit is _much_ lower than Hanon’s,” she said. “I _will_ put an arrow between your eyes. And you have six of them. That’s going to be a lot of arrows.”

“I am not the enemy, Ellana.”

She released the arrow. He leapt aside, caught by surprise.

“One arrow for each bullshit,” she said.

Fen’Harel stared at the arrow. “You are making this more difficult.”

“Good!” she chirped. “That’s why I’m here.”

“The adamance in which you protect him is more revealing than you think. When you choose to remain silent is telling. Every action, every word, every deflection, every measure you take to hide him, is all telling.” He looked at her, looming, eyes flaring crimson, fur dripping tar. He crushed the arrow beneath his paw.

Her heart raced against her will, the air suddenly feeling as if it were choking her.

“The more you interact with me,” he said, “the more information I glean.”

“Likewise.”

She had to wake up. She had to get away.

Ellana willed herself to wake. Waited.

Nothing.

Panic simmered beneath her throat. She tried again.

Nothing.

Fen’Harel only stared at her. Took another step forward. She was too frozen to nock another arrow or move back.

“I have said that I will warn you only once. If you continue to test it…” He snarled, black dripping between his teeth. “You will understand how I have come to earn my name.”

So this was it? These were his true colours?

_“I want to hate him, but I can’t,” said Hanon, staring at nothing. “Even when we were hunting him down, even when I was so angry… I never hated him.”_

_“I don’t understand,” she said, her ire rising. “After everything he’s done?”_

_“Stupid, right?” He laughed faintly. “I guess I just understand a little too much of his sorrow.” He smiled down wryly at his left hand. “And at the same time, I can never comprehend it. He becomes what others see him as. What others need him to be.”_

Some of her fear abated.

“Close your mouth, you’re drooling,” she said.

He only chuckled. “Acting flippant will not save you.”

“No, seriously, that’s gross.”

“You are a fool.”

“And you’re a court of jesters.”

Fen’Harel woke her up.

Ellana covered her eyes with her arm, took a few minutes to gather her bearings. She sat up, composed herself, and stepped out of the tent.

Hanon was already up, raven cloak on his shoulders.

She wanted to ask him what the hell his dream was about, but he looked at her with such a lost and forlorn look and her questions dissipated. She hugged him wordlessly.

Her eyes fell on Dirthamen’s temple in the near distance.

“I saw him,” he whispered.

She only hugged him tighter.

* * *

_“Hanon?” she whispered in the dark silence of their aravel._

_“Yeah?” he whispered back._

_“I’m scared of Fen’Harel.”_

_It was quiet for a while. Ellana feared Hanon had fallen asleep, but then he answered, “I’ll teach you how to use a bow.”_

_“You can barely use it yourself.” She hiked the blanket up to her chin and scowled. “Warleader Hanathir still yells at you because you suck with a sword.”_

_“I’ll get good then!” he said, impetuous. “And I’ll teach you.”_

_“I don’t have time; I have to study. I’m the First now. I have to be a good First, like mae.”_

_Another silence._

_“We’ll find time,” he promised. “I’ll study with you. Maybe we can make it go faster.”_

_She snorted with soft laughter. “You? Study magic?”_

_“Well, maybe not that, but history and stuff. I can help with that. Then you can shoot arrows at him if he frightens you.”_

_“It’s not about fighting him.”_

_“It’s not?”_

_“It’s his words.”_

_Quietly, he said, “Oh…”_

_“I don’t want to be tricked,” she said. “I don’t want to feel like I have everything then watch him take everything else.”_

_“I’ll teach you words, too.”_

_“You’re no good at them. You just yell a lot.”_

_“I know how to,” he said, still soft, but there was a harder edge to it. “I can be good.” He said it as if he were announcing that the sun was hot._

_“How do you know?”_

_“I just feel it, alright?”_

_She scrunched her face. That didn’t make sense. Hanon was bragging again._

_Someone knocked on the outside of their aravel and startled them._

_“Go to sleep,” scolded Keeper Deshanna. “It’s late.”_

_Ellana and Hanon giggled to themselves._

_But bragging or not, Ellana went to sleep comforted. Her brother could do anything he set his mind to. He could do it. He could do everything._

* * *

Hanon broke down in her arms the night before he set out for this Conclave.

Her brother could not do everything.

* * *

She packed her items, strapped the bags to the hart, and rolled the map that had been given to her by an Inquisition scout.

Keeper Deshanna watched her with a worried frown.

“Are you sure you’re alright with me running off like this?” asked Ellana.

“I think your brother could use family at his side right now.” She smoothed her robes down. “And I doubt I can stop you anyway.”

Ellana patted the hart’s nose. “He’s helped us get out of this shitstorm. It’s time I repaid the favour.”

Keeper Deshanna’s gaze softened. “Da’len, you know he has looked after you because he loves you, not because he expects repayment.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But I feel like he’s the one who’s always watching out for me. Watching out for us. I’ve always seen him as this unflappable person, maybe even idolised him a little, and I grew too comfortable with it. He’s just… another person.” Ellana looked back at Keeper Deshanna with a set expression. “We look out for each other. That’s what we promised mae.”

Keeper Deshanna smiled. “Dareth shiral, Ellana. Clan Lavellan and I are proud to call you both family.”

She smiled back and climbed onto the hart.

She snapped the reins and rode.

Hanon could not do everything.

So Ellana would help lighten the load. She’d brave the Dread Wolf if she had to.

Hanon had taught her how to use words and a bow, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel: you're a clown  
> Ellana: and you're a whole ass circus
> 
> Sorry it's so chronologically all over the place lmao. I was just exploring Ellana's character a little.
> 
> ###### 
> 
> ###### Notes
> 
> [1] To dance with the wolves: A Dalish saying which means 'to have sex'[⇧]


End file.
